THE   STREET  OF  THE 
BLANK  WALL 

and  Other  Stories 
JEROME  K.  JEROME 

Author  of  "Three  Men  in  a  Boat," 
"Three  Men  on  Wheels,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1917 


Copyright,  1916 
By  JEROME  K.  JEROME 


Copyright,  1916 
By  DODD,  MEAD  and  COMPANY,  Inc. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Street  of  the  Blank  Wall     . 

.     .      7 

Malvina  of  Brittany       .... 

.     .     53 

His  Evening  Out 

.     .  169 

The  Lesson 

.     .  217 

Sylvia  of  the  Letters     .... 

.     .  243 

The  Fawn  Gloves 

.     .  301 

359351 


THE  STREET  OF  THE  BLANK  WALL 


The  Street  of  the  Blank  Wall 

I  HAD  turned  off  from  the  Edgware  Road 
into  a  street  leading  west,  the  atmosphere 
of  which  had  appealed  to  me.  It  was  a  place 
of  quiet  houses  standing  behind  little  gardens. 
They  had  the  usual  names  printed  on  the  stuc- 
coed gateposts.  The  fading  twilight  was  just 
sufficient  to  enable  one  to  read  them.  There 
was  a  Laburnum  Villa  and  The  Cedars 
and  a  Cairngorm,  rising  to  the  height  of 
three  stories,  with  a  curious  little  turret  that 
branched  out  at  the  top  and  was  crowned  with 
a  conical  roof,  so  that  it  looked  as  if  wearing 
a  witch's  hat.  Especially  when  two  small  win- 
dows just  below  the  eaves  sprang  suddenly  into 
light  and  gave  one  the  feeling  of  a  pair  of 
wicked  eyes  suddenly  flashed  upon  one. 

The  street  curved  to  the  right,  ending  in  an 
open  space  through  which  passed  a  canal  be- 
neath a  low-arched  bridge.    There  were  still  the 

7 


8  THE  STREET  OF 

same  quiet  houses  behind  their  small  gardens 
and  I  watched  for  a  while  the  lamplighter  pick- 
ing out  the  shape  of  the  canal  that  widened  just 
above  the  bridge  into  a  lake  with  an  island  in 
the  middle.  After  that  I  must  have  wandered  in 
a  circle,  for  later  on  I  found  myself  back  in 
the  same  spot,  though  I  do  not  suppose  I  had 
passed  a  dozen  people  on  my  way;  and  then  I 
set  to  work  to  find  my  way  back  to  Paddington. 

I  thought  I  had  taken  the  road  by  which  I 
had  come,  but  the  half  light  must  have  deceived 
me.  Not  that  it  mattered.  They  had  a  lurking 
mystery  about  them,  these  silent  streets  with 
their  suggestion  of  hushed  movement  behind 
drawn  curtains,  of  whispered  voices  behind  the 
flimsy  walls.  Occasionally  there  would  escape 
the  sound  of  laughter,  suddenly  stifled  as  it 
seemed,  and  once  the  sudden  cry  of  a  child. 

It  was  in  a  short  street  of  semi-detached  vil- 
las facing  a  high  blank  wall  that,  as  I  passed, 
I  saw  a  blind  move  halfway  up,  revealing  a 
woman's  face.  A  gas  lamp,  the  only  one  the 
street  possessed,  was  nearly  opposite.  I 
thought  at  first  it  was  the  face  of  a  girl,  and 
then,  as  I  looked  again,  it  might  have  been  the 


THE  BLANK  WALL  9 

face  of  an  old  woman.  One  could  not  dis- 
tinguish the  colouring.  In  any  case,  the  cold 
blue  gaslight  would  have  made  it  seem  pallid. 

The  remarkable  feature  was  the  eyes.'  It 
might  have  been,  of  course,  that  they  alone 
caught  the  light  and  held  it,  rendering  them 
uncannily  large  and  brilliant.  Or  it  might  have 
been  that  the  rest  of  the  face  was  small  and 
delicate,  out  of  all  proportion  to  them.  She 
may  have  seen  me,  for  the  blind  was  drawn 
down  again,  and  I  passed  on. 

There  was  no  particular  reason  why,  but  the 
incident  lingered  with  me:  the  sudden  raising 
of  the  blind,  as  of  the  curtain  of  some  small 
theatre,  the  barely  furnished  room  coming 
dimly  into  view,  and  the  woman  standing  there, 
close  to  the  footlights,  as  to  my  fancy  it 
seemed.  And  then  the  sudden  ringing  down 
of  the  curtain  before  the  play  had  begun.  I 
turned  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  The  blind 
had  been  drawn  up  again,  and  I  saw  again  the 
slight,  girlish  figure  silhouetted  against  the  side 
panes  of  the  bow  window. 

At  the  same  moment  a  man  knocked  up 
against  me.    It  was  not  his  fault.    I  had  stopped 


10  THE  STREET  OF 

abruptly,  not  giving  him  time  to  avoid  me.  We 
both  apologised,  blaming  the  darkness.  It  may 
have  been  my  fancy,  but  I  had  the  feeling  that, 
instead  of  going  on  his  way,  he  had  turned  and 
was  following  me.  I  waited  till  the  next  corner 
and  then  swung  round  on  my  heel.  But  there 
was  no  sign  of  him,  and  after  a  while  I  found 
myself  back  in  the  Edgware  Road. 

Once  or  twice,  in  idle  mood,  I  sought  the 
street  again,  but  without  success ;  and  the  thing 
would,  I  expect,  have  faded  from  my  memory, 
but  that  one  evening,  on  my  way  home  from 
Paddington,  I  came  across  the  woman  in  the 
Harrow  Road.  There  was  no  mistaking  her. 
She  almost  touched  me  as  she  came  out  of  a 
fishmonger's  shop,  and  unconsciously,  at  the 
beginning,  I  found  myself  following  her.  This 
time  I  noticed  the  turnings,  and  five  minutes ' 
walking  brought  us  to  the  street.  Half  a  dozen 
times  I  must  have  been  within  a  hundred  yards 
of  it.  I  lingered  at  the  corner.  She  had  not  no- 
ticed me,  and  just  as  she  reached  the  house  a 
man  came  out  of  the  shadows  beyond  the  lamp- 
post and  joined  her. 

I  was  due  at  a  bachelor  gathering  that  even- 


THE  BLANK  WALL  11 

ing,  and  after  dinner,  the  affair  being  fresh  in 
my  mind,  I  talked  about  it.  I  am  not  sure,  but 
I  think  it  was  in  connection  with  a  discussion  on 
Maeterlinck.  It  was  that  sudden  lifting  of  the 
blind  that  had  caught  hold  of  me.  As  if,  blun- 
dering into  an  empty  theatre,  I  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  some  drama  being  played  in  secret. 
We  passed  to  other  topics,  and  when  I  was  leav- 
ing a  fellow-guest  asked  me  which  way  I  was 
going.  I  told  him,  and,  it  being  a  fine  night,  he 
proposed  that  we  should  walk  together.  And 
in  the  quiet  of  Harley  Street  he  confessed  that 
his  desire  had  not  been  entirely  the  pleasure  of 
my  company. 

"It  is  rather  curious,"  he  said,  "but  to-day 
there  suddenly  came  to  my  remembrance  a  case 
that  for  nearly  eleven  years  I  have  never  given 
a  thought  to.  And  now,  on  top  of  it,  comes 
your  description  of  that  woman's  face.  I  am 
wondering  if  it  can  be  the  same." 

"It  was  the  eyes,"  I  said,  "that  struck  me 
as  so  remarkable." 

"It  was  the  eyes  that  I  chiefly  remember  her 
by,"  he  replied.  "Would  you  know  the  street 
again?" 


12  THE  STREET  OF 

We  walked  a  little  while  in  silence. 

"It  may  seem,  perhaps,  odd  to  you,"  I  an- 
swered, "but  it  would  trouble  me,  the  idea  of 
any  harm  coming  to  her  through  me.  What  was 
the  case?" 

"You  can  feel  quite  safe  on  that  point,"  he 
assured  me.  "I  was  her  counsel:  that  is,  if  it 
is  the  same  woman.    How  was  she  dressed?" 

I  could  not  see  the  reason  for  his  question. 
He  could  hardly  expect  her  to  be  wearing  the 
clothes  of  eleven  years  ago. 

"I  don't  think  I  noticed,"  I  answered. 
"Some  sort  of  a  blouse,  I  suppose."  And  then 
I  recollected.  "Ah,  yes!  There  was  something 
uncommon,"  I  added.  "An  unusually  broad 
band  of  velvet,  it  looked  like,  round  her  neck." 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said.  "Yes.  It  must  be 
the  same." 

We  had  reached  Marylebone  Road,  where 
our  ways  parted. 

"I  will  look  you  up  to-morrow  afternoon,  if 
I  may,"  he  said.  "We  might  take  a  stroll 
round  together." 

He  called  on  me  about  half-past  five  and  we 
reached  the  street  just  as  the  one  solitary  gas 


THE  BLANK  WALL  13 

lamp  had  been  lighted.  I  pointed  out  the  house 
to  him  and  he  crossed  over  and  looked  at  the 
number. 

" Quite  right,' '  he  said,  on  returning.  "I 
made  inquiries  this  morning.  She  was  released 
six  weeks  ago,  on  ticket-of-leave. ' ' 

He  took  my  arm.  "Not  much  use  hanging 
about,"  he  said.  "The  blind  won't  go  up  to- 
night. Rather  a  clever  idea,  selecting  a  house 
just  opposite  a  lamp-post." 

He  had  an  engagement  that  evening;  but  later 
on  he  told  me  the  story— that  is,  so  far  as  he 
then  knew  it. 

*  *  #  #  # 

It  was  in  the  early  days  of  the  garden  suburb 
movement.  One  of  the  first  sites  chosen  was 
off  the  Finchley  Road.  The  place  was  in  the 
building,  and  one  of  the  streets— Laleham  Gar- 
dens— had  only  some  half  a  dozen  houses  in  it, 
all  unoccupied  save  one.  It  was  a  lonely,  loose 
end  of  the  suburb,  terminating  suddenly  in  open 
fields.  From  the  unfinished  end  of  the  road 
the  ground  sloped  down  somewhat  steeply  to  a 
pond,  and  beyond  that  began  a  small  wood. 
The  one  house  occupied  had  been  bought  by  a 


14  THE  STREET  OF 

young  married  couple  named  Hepworth.  The 
husband  was  a  good-looking,  pleasant  young 
fellow.  Being  clean-shaven,  his  exact  age  was 
difficult  to  judge.  The  wife,  it  was  quite  evi- 
dent, was  little  more  than  a  girl.  About  the 
man  there  was  a  suggestion  of  weakness.  At 
least,  that  was  the  impression  left  on  the  mind 
of  the  house-agent.  To-day  he  would  decide, 
and  to-morrow  change  his  mind.  Jetson,  the 
agent,  had  almost  given  up  hope  of  bringing 
off  a  deal.  In  the  end  it  was  Mrs.  Hepworth 
who,  taking  the  matter  into  her  own  hands, 
fixed  upon  the  house  in  Laleham  Gardens. 
Young  Hepworth  found  fault  with  it  on  the 
ground  of  its  isolation.  He  himself  was  often 
away  for  days  at  a  time,  travelling  on  business, 
and  was  afraid  she  would  be  nervous.  He  had 
been  very  persistent  on  this  point ;  but  in  whis- 
pered conversations  she  had  persuaded  him  out 
of  his  objection.  It  was  one  of  those  pretty, 
fussy  little  houses ;  and  it  seemed  to  have  taken 
her  fancy.  Added  to  which,  according  to  her 
argument,  it  was  just  within  their  means,  which 
none  of  the  others  were.  Young  Hepworth  may 
have  given  the  usual  references,  but  if  so  they 


THE  BLANK  WALL  15 

were  never  taken  up.  The  house  was  sold  on 
the  company's  usual  terms.  The  deposit  was 
paid  by  a  cheque,  w^hich  was  duly  cleared,  and 
the  house  itself  was  security  for  the  rest.  The 
company's  solicitor,  with  Hepworth's  consent, 
acted  for  both  parties. 

It  was  early  in  June  when  the  Hepworths 
moved  in.  They  furnished  only  one  bedroom, 
and  kept  no  servant,  a  charwoman  coming  in 
every  morning  and  going  away  about  six  in  the 
evening.  Jets  on  was  their  nearest  neighbour. 
His  wife  and  daughters  called  on  them,  and 
confess  to  have  taken  a  liking  to  them  both. 
Indeed,  between  one  of  the  Jets  on  girls,  the 
youngest,  and  Mrs.  Hepworth  there  seems  to 
have  sprung  up  a  close  friendship.  Young  Hep- 
worth,  the  husband,  was  always  charming,  and 
evidently  took  pains  to  make  himself  agreeable. 
But  with  regard  to  him  they  had  the  feeling 
that  he  was  never  altogether  at  his  ease.  They 
described  him — though  that,  of  course,  was 
after  the  event — as  having  left  upon  them  the 
impression  of  a  haunted  man. 

There  was  one  occasion  in  particular.  It  was 
about  ten  o'clock.    The  Jetsons  had  been  spend- 


16  THE  STREET  OF 

ing  the  evening  with  the  Hepworths,  and  were 
just  on  the  point  of  leaving,  when  there  came  a 
sudden,  clear  knock  at  the  door.  It  turned  out 
to  be  Jetson's  foreman,  who  had  to  leave  by  an 
early  train  in  the  morning,  and  had  found  that 
he  needed  some  further  instructions.  But  the 
terror  in  Hepworth's  face  was  unmistakable. 
He  had  turned  a  look  towards  his  wife  that  was 
almost  of  despair ;  and  it  had  seemed  to  the  Jet- 
sons — or,  talking  it  over  afterward,  they  may 
have  suggested  the  idea  to  each  other — that 
there  came  a  flash  of  contempt  into  her  eyes, 
though  it  yielded  the  next  instant  to  an  expres- 
sion of  pity.  She  had  risen,  and  already  moved 
some  steps  towards  the  door,  when  young  Hep- 
worth  had  stopped  her,  and  gone  out  himself. 
But  the  curious  thing  was  that,  according  to  the 
foreman's  account,  Hep  worth  never  opened  the 
front  door,  but  came  upon  him  stealthily  from 
behind.  He  must  have  slipped  out  by  the  back 
and  crept  round  the  house. 

The  incident  had  puzzled  the  Jetsons,  espe- 
cially that  involuntary  flash  of  contempt  that 
had  come  into  Mrs.  Hepworth's  eyes.  She  had 
always  appeared  to  adore  her  husband,  and 


THE  BLANK  WALL  17 

of  the  two,  if  possible,  to  be  the  one  most  in  love 
with  the  other.  They  had  no  friends  or  ac- 
quaintances except  the  Jetsons.  No  one  else 
among  their  neighbours  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  call  on  them,  and  no  stranger  to  the  suburb 
had,  so  far  as  was  known,  ever  been  seen  in 
Laleham  Gardens. 

Until  one  evening  a  little  before  Christmas. 

Jetson  was  on  his  way  home  from  his  office 
in  the  Finchley  Road.  There  had  been  a  mist 
hanging  about  all  day,  and  with  nightfall  it  had 
settled  down  into  a  whitish  fog.  Soon  after 
leaving  the  Finchley  Road,  Jetson  noticed  in 
front  of  him  a  man  wearing  a  long,  yellow 
mackintosh,  and  some  sort  of  a  soft  felt  hat. 
He  gave  Jetson  the  idea  of  being  a  sailor:  it 
may  have  been  merely  the  stiff,  serviceable 
mackintosh.  At  the  corner  of  Laleham  Gardens 
the  man  turned,  and  glanced  up  at  the  name 
upon  the  lamp-post,  so  that  Jetson  had  a  full 
view  of  him.  Evidently  it  was  the  street  for 
which  he  was  looking.  Jetson,  somewhat  curi- 
ous, the  Hepworths'  house  being  still  the  only 
one  occupied,  paused  at  the  corner  and  watched. 
The   Hepworths'   house   was,    of   course,   the 


18  THE  STREET  OF 

only  one  in  the  road  that  showed  any  light. 
The  man,  when  he  came  to  the  gate,  struck 
a  match  for  the  purpose  of  reading  the 
number.  Satisfied  it  was  the  house  he  wanted, 
he  pushed  open  the  gate  and  went  up  the 
path. 

But,  instead  of  using  the  bell  or  knocker,  Jet- 
son  was  surprised  to  hear  him  give  three  raps 
on  the  door  with  his  stick.  There  was  no  an- 
swer, and  Jetson,  whose  interest  was  now 
thoroughly  aroused,  crossed  to  the  other  corner, 
from  where  he  could  command  a  better  view. 
Twice  the  man  repeated  his  three  raps  on  the 
door,  each  time  a  little  louder,  and  the  third 
time  the  door  was  opened.  Jetson  could  not  tell 
by  whom,  for  whoever  it  was  kept  behind  it.  He 
could  just  see  one  wall  of  the  passage,  with  a 
pair  of  old  naval  cutlasses  crossed  above  the 
picture  of  a  three-masted  schooner  that  he 
knew  hung  there.  The  door  was  opened  just 
sufficient,  and  the  man  slipped  in,  and  the  door 
was  closed  behind  him.  Jetson  had  turned  to 
continue  his  way,  when  the  fancy  seized  him  to 
give  one  glance  back.  The  house  was  in  com- 
plete darkness,  though  a  moment  before,  Jet- 


THE  BLANK  WALL  19 

son  was  positive  there  had  been  a  light  in  the 
ground-floor  window. 

It  all  sounded  very  important  afterward,  but 
at  the  time  there  was  nothing  to  suggest  to  Jet- 
son  anything  very  much  out  of  the  common. 
Because  for  six  months  no  friend  or  relation 
had  called  to  see  them,  that  was  no  reason  why 
one  never  should.  In  the  fog,  a  stranger  may 
have  thought  it  simpler  to  knock  at  the  door 
with  his  stick  than  to  fumble  in  search  of  a  bell. 
The  Hepworths  lived  chiefly  in  the  room  at  the 
back.  The  light  in  the  drawing-room  may  have 
been  switched  off  for  economy's  sake.  Jetson 
recounted  the  incident  on  reaching  home,  not 
as  anything  remarkable,  but  just  as  one  men- 
tions an  item  of  gossip.  The  only  one  who  ap- 
pears to  have  attached  any  meaning  to  the  af- 
fair was  Jetson  Js  youngest  daughter,  then  a 
girl  of  eighteen.  She  asked  one  or  two  ques- 
tions about  the  man,  and  during  the  evening 
slipped  out  by  herself  and  ran  round  to  the  Hep- 
worths.  She  found  the  house  empty.  At  all 
events,  she  could  obtain  no  answer,  and  the 
place,  back  and  front,  seemed  to  her  to  be  un- 
cannily silent. 


20  THE  STREET  OF 

Jetson  called  the  next  morning,  something  of 
his  daughter's  uneasiness  having  communicated 
itself  to  him.  Mrs.  Hepworth  herself  opened 
the  door  to  him.  In  his  evidence  at  the  trial, 
Jetson  admitted,  that  her  appearance  had 
startled  him.  She  seems  to  have  anticipated  his 
questions  by  at  once  explaining  that  she  had 
had  news  of  an  unpleasant  nature,  and  had  been 
worrying  over  it  all  night.  Her  husband  had 
been  called  away  suddenly  to  America,  where 
it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  join  him  as 
soon  as  possible.  She  would  come  round  to  Jet- 
son's  office  later  in  the  day  to  make  arrange- 
ments about  getting  rid  of  the  house-  and  fur- 
niture. 

The  story  seemed  reasonably  to  account 
for  the  stranger's  visit,  and  Jetson,  ex- 
pressing his  sympathy  and  promising  all  help 
in  his  power,  continued  his  way  to  the  office. 
She  called  in  the  afternoon  and  handed  him 
over  the  keys.  She  wished  the  furniture  to  be 
sold  by  auction,  and  he  was  to  accept  almost  any 
offer  for  the  house.  She  would  try  and  see  him 
again  before  sailing;  if  not,  she  would  write 
him  with  her  address.    She  was  perfectly  cool 


THE  BLANK  WALL  21 

and  collected.  She  had  called  on  his  wife  and 
daughters  in  the  afternoon,  and  had  wished 
them  good-bye. 

Outside  Jetson's  office  she  hailed  a  cab,  and 
returned  in  it  to  Laleham  Gardens  to  collect 
her  boxes.  The  next  time  Jetson  saw  her  she 
was  in  the  dock,  charged  with  being  an  accom- 
plice in  the  murder  of  her  husband. 

The  body  had  been  discovered  in  a  pond  some 
hundred  yards  from  the  unfinished  end  of  Lale- 
ham Gardens.  A  house  was  in  course  of  erec- 
tion on  a  neighbouring  plot,  and  a  workman,  in 
dipping  up  a  pail  of  water,  had  dropped  in  his 
watch.  He  and  his  mate,  worrying  round  with 
a  rake,  had  drawn  up  pieces  of  torn  clothing, 
and  this,  of  course,  had  led  to  the  pond  being 
properly  dragged.  Otherwise  discovery  might 
never  have  been  made. 

The  body,  heavily  weighted  with  a  number  of 
flat-irons  fastened  to  it  by  a  chain  and  padlock, 
had  sunk  deep  into  the  soft  mud,  and  might 
have  remained  there  till  it  rotted.  A  valuable 
gold  repeater,  that  Jetson  remembered  young 
Hepworth  having  told  him  had  been  a  presenta- 


22  THE  STREET  OF 

tion  to  his  father,  was  in  its  usual  pocket,  and 
a  cameo  ring  that  Hepworth  had  always  worn 
on  his  third  finger  was  likewise  fished  up  from 
the  mud.  Evidently  the  murder  belonged  to  the 
category  of  " Crimes  passional."  The  theory 
of  the  prosecution  was  that  it  had  been  com- 
mitted by  a  man  who,  before  her  marriage,  had 
been  Mrs.  Hepworth 's  lover. 

The  evidence,  contrasted  with  the  almost 
spiritually  beautiful  face  of  the  woman  in  the 
dock,  came  as  a  surprise  to  everyone  in  court. 
Originally  connected  with  an  English  circus 
troupe  touring  in  Holland,  she  appears,  about 
seventeen,  to  have  been  engaged  as  a  "Song 
and  Dance  Artiste"  at  a  particularly  shady 
cafe  chantant  in  Rotterdam,  frequented  chiefly 
by  sailors.  From  there  a  man,  an  English 
sailor  known  as  Charlie  Martin,  took  her  away, 
and  for  some  months  she  had  lived  with  him  at 
a  small  estaminet  the  other  side  of  the  river. 
Later,  they  left  Rotterdam  and  came  to  London, 
where  they  took  lodgings  in  Poplar,  near  to  the 
docks. 

It  was  from  this  address  in  Poplar  that, 
some  few  months  before  the  murder,  she  had 


THE  BLANK  WALL  23 

married  young  Hepworth.  What  had  become 
of  Martin  was  not  known.  The  natural  assump- 
tion was  that,  his  money  being  exhausted,  he 
had  returned  to  his  calling,  though  his  name,  for 
some  reason,  could  not  be  found  in  any  ship's 
list. 

That  he  was  one  and  the  same  with  the 
man  that  Jetson  had  watched  till  the  door  of 
the  Hepworths'  house  had  closed  upon  him 
there  could  be  no  doubt.  Jetson  described  him 
as  a  thick-set,  handsome-looking  man,  with  a 
reddish  beard  and  moustache.  Earlier  in  the 
day  he  had  been  seen  at  Hampstead,  where  he 
had  dined  at  a  small  coffee  shop  in  the  High 
Street.  The  girl  who  had  waited  on  him  had 
also  been  struck  by  the  bold,  piercing  eyes  and 
the  curly  red  beard.  It  had  been  an  off-time, 
between  two  and  three,  when  he  had  dined 
there,  and  the  girl  admitted  that  she  had  found 
him  a  "pleasant-spoken  gentleman"  and  " in- 
clined to  be  merry."  He  had  told  her  that  he 
had  arrived  in  England  only  three  days  ago, 
and  that  he  hoped  that  evening  to  see  his  sweet- 
heart. He  had  accompanied  the  words  with  a 
laugh,  and  the  girl  thought — though,  of  course, 


24  THE  STREET  OF 

this  may  have  been  after-suggestion — that  an 
ugly  look  followed  the  laugh. 

One  imagines  that  it  was  this  man's  return 
that  had  been  the  fear  constantly  haunting 
young  Hepworth.  The  three  raps  on  the  door, 
it  was  urged  by  the  prosecution,  was  a  pre- 
arranged or  pre-understood  signal,  and  the 
door  had  been  opened  by  the  woman.  Whether 
the  husband  was  in  the  house,  or  whether  they 
waited  for  him,  could  not  be  said.  He  had 
been  killed  by  a  bullet  entering  through  the 
back  of  the  neck:  the  man  had  evidently  come 
prepared. 

Ten  days  had  elapsed  between  the  murder 
and  the  finding  of  the  body,  and  the  man  was 
never  traced.  A  postman  had  met  him  coming 
from  the  neighbourhood  of  Laleham  Gardens  at 
about  half -past  nine.  In  the  fog  they  had  all 
but  bumped  into  one  another  and  the  man  had 
immediately  turned  away  his  face. 

About  the  soft  felt  hat  there  was  nothing  to 
excite  attention,  but  the  long,  stiff,  yellow 
mackintosh  was  quite  unusual.  The  postman 
had  caught  only  a  momentary  glimpse  of  the 
face,  but  was  certain  it  was  clean  shaven.  This 


THE  BLANK  WALL  25 

made  a  sensation  in  court  for  the  moment,  but 
only  until  the  calling  of  the  next  witness.  The 
charwoman  usually  employed  by  the  Hep- 
worths  had  not  been  admitted  to  the  house  on 
the  morning  of  Mrs.  Hepworth 's  departure. 
Mrs.  Hepworth  had  met  her  at  the  door  and 
paid  her  a  week's  money  in  lieu  of  notice, 
explaining  to  her  that  she  would  not  be  wanted 
any  more.  Jetson,  thinking  he  might  possibly 
do  better  by  letting  the  house  furnished,  had 
sent  for  this  woman,  and  instructed  her  to  give 
the  place  a  thorough  cleaning.  Sweeping  the 
carpet  in  the  dining-room  with  a  dustpan  and 
brush,  she  had  discovered  a  number  of  short 
red  hairs.  The  man,  before  leaving  the  house, 
had  shaved  himself. 

That  he  had  still  retained  the  long,  yellow 
mackintosh  may  have  been  with  the  idea  of 
starting  a  false  clue.  Having  served  its  pur- 
pose, it  could  be  discarded.  The  beard  would 
not  have  been  so  easy. 

What  roundabout  way  he  may  have  taken  one 
cannot  say,  but  it  must  have  been  some  time 
during  the  night  or  early  morning  that  he 
reached  young  Hepworth 's  office  in  Fenchurch 


26  THE  STREET  OF 

Street.  Mrs.  Hepworth  had  evidently  provided 
him  with  the  key. 

There  he  seems  to  have  hidden  the  hat  and 
mackintosh  and  to  have  taken  in  exchange  some 
clothes  belonging  to  the  murdered  man.  Hep- 
worth's  clerk,  Ellenby,  an  elderly  man — of  the 
type  that  one  generally  describes  as  of  gentle- 
manly appearance — was  accustomed  to  his  mas- 
ter being  away  unexpectedly  on  business,  which 
was  that  of  a  ship's  furnisher.  He  always  kept 
an  overcoat  and  a  bag  ready  packed  in  the  of- 
fice. Missing  them,  Ellenby  had  assumed  that 
his  master  had  been  called  away  by  an  early 
train.  He  would  have  been  worried  after  a  few 
days,  but  that  he  had  received  a  telegram — as 
he  then  supposed  from  his  master — explaining 
that  young  Hepworth  had  gone  to  Ireland  and 
would  be  away  for  some  days.  It  was  nothing 
unusual  for  Hepworth  to  be  absent,  superin- 
tending the  furnishing  of  a  ship,  for  a  fortnight 
at  a  time,  and  nothing  had  transpired  in  the 
office  necessitating  special  instructions. 

The  telegram  had  been  handed  iii  at  Charing 
Cross,  but  the  time  chosen  had  been  a  busy 
period  of  the  day,  and  no  one  had  any  recollec- 


THE  BLANK  WALL  27 

tion  of  the  sender.  Hepworth's  clerk  unhesi- 
tatingly identified  the  body  as  that  of  his 
employer,  for  whom  it  was  evident  that  he  had 
entertained  a  feeling  of  affection.  About  Mrs. 
Hepworth  he  said  as  little  as  he  could.  While 
she  was  awaiting  her  trial  it  had  been  necessary 
for  him  to  see  her  once  or  twice  with  reference 
to  the  business.  Previous  to  this,  he  knew 
nothing  about  her. 

The  woman's  own  attitude  throughout  the 
trial  had  been  quite  unexplainable.  Beyond 
agreeing  to  a  formal  plea  of  ' '  Not  guilty, ' '  she 
had  made  no  attempt  to  defend  herself.  What 
little  assistance  her  solicitors  had  obtained  had 
been  given  them,  not  by  the  woman  herself,  but 
by  Hepworth's  clerk,  more  for  the  sake  of  his 
dead  master  than  out  of  any  sympathy  towards 
the  wife.  She  herself  appeared  utterly  indif- 
ferent. Only  once  had  she  been  betrayed  into 
a  momentary  emotion.  It  was  when  her 
solicitors  were  urging  her  almost  angrily 
to  give  them  some  particulars  upon  a 
point  they  thought  might  be  helpful  to  her 
case. 

i ' He's  dead,"  she  had  cried  out  almost  with 


28  THE  STREET  OF 

a  note  of  exultation.  "Dead!  Dead!  What 
else  matters !" 

The  next  moment  she  had  apologised  for  her 
outburst.  ' '  Nothing  can  do  any  good, ' '  she  had 
said.    "Let  the  thing  take  its  Course." 

It  was  the  astounding  callousness  of  the 
woman  that  told  against  her,  both  with  the 
judge  and  the  jury.  That  shaving  in  the  dining- 
room,  the  murdered  man's  body  not  yet  cold! 
It  must  have  been  done  with  Hepworth's  safety 
razor.  She  must  have  brought  it  down  to  him, 
found  him  a  looking-glass,  brought  him  soap 
and  water  and  a  towel,  afterward  removing  all 
traces,  except  those  few  red  hairs  that  had 
clung,  unnoticed,  to  the  carpet.  That  nest  of 
flat-irons  used  to  weight  the  body!  It  must 
have  been  she  who  had  thought  of  them.  The 
idea  would  never  have  occurred  to  a  man.  The 
chain  and  padlock  with  which  to  fasten  them! 
She  only  could  have  known  that  such  things 
were  in  the  house.  It  must  have  been  she  who 
had  planned  the  exchange  of  clothes  in  Hep- 
worth's  office,  giving  him  the  key.  She  it  must 
have  been  who.  had  thought  of  the  pond,  hold- 
ing open  the  door  while  the  man  had  staggered 


THE  BLANK  WALL  29 

out  under  his  ghastly  burden:  waited,  keeping 
watch,  listening  to  hear  the  splash. 

Evidently  it  had  been  her  intention  to  go  off 
with  the  murderer — to  live  with  him!  That 
story  about  America.  If  all  had  gone  well,  it 
would  have  accounted  for  everything.  After 
leaving  Laleham  Gardens  she  had  taken  lodg- 
ings in  a  small  house  in  Kentish  Town  under 
the  name  of  Howard,  giving  herself  out  to  be  a 
chorus  singer,  her  husband  being  an  actor  on 
tour.  To  make  the  thing  plausible,  she  had  ob- 
tained employment  in  one  of  the  pantomimes. 
Not  for  a  moment  had  she  lost  her  head.  No 
one  had  ever  called  at  her  lodgings,  and  there 
had  come  no  letters  for  her.  Every  hour  of 
her  day  could  be  accounted  for.  Their  plans 
must  have  been  worked  out  over  the  corpse  of 
her  murdered  husband.  She  was  found  guilty 
of  being  an  "accessory  after  the  fact"  and  sen- 
tenced to  fifteen  years'  penal  servitude. 
***** 

That  brought  the  story  up  to  eleven  years 
ago.  After  the  trial,  interested  in  spite  of  him- 
self, my  friend  had  ferreted  out  some  further 
particulars.     Inquiries  at  Liverpool  had  pro- 


30  THE  STREET  OF 

cured  him  the  information  that  Hepworth's 
father,  a  ship-owner  in  a  small  way,  had  been 
well  known  and  highly  respected.  He  was  re- 
tired from  business  when  he  died,  some  three 
years  previous  to  the  date  of  the  murder.  His 
wife  had  survived  him  by  only  a  few  months. 
Besides  Michael,  the  murdered  son,  there  were 
two  other  children — an  elder  brother,  who  was 
thought  to  have  gone  abroad  to  one  of  the  col- 
onies, and  a  sister,  who  had  married  a  French 
naval  officer.  Either  they  had  not  heard  of  the 
case  or  had  not  wished  to  have  their  names 
dragged  into  it.  Young  Michael  had  started 
life  as  an  architect,  and  was  supposed  to  have 
been  doing  well,  but  after  the  death  of  his  par- 
ents had  disappeared  from  the  neighbourhood, 
and,  until  the  trial,  none  of  his  acquaintances  up 
north  ever  knew  what  had  become  of  him. 

But  a  further  item  of  knowledge  that  my 
friend's  inquiries  had  elicited  had  somewhat 
puzzled  him.  Hepworth's  clerk,  Ellenby,  had 
been  the  confidential  clerk  of  Hepworth's 
father !  He  had  entered  the  service  of  the  firm 
as  a  boy;  and  when  Hep  worth  senior  retired, 
Ellenby — with  the  old  gentleman's  assistance — 


THE  BLANK  WALL  31 

had  started  in  business  for  himself  as  a  ship's 
furnisher !  Nothing  of  all  this  came  out  at  the 
trial.  Ellenby  had  not  been  cross-examined. 
There  was  no  need  for  it.  But  it  seemed  odd, 
under  all  the  circumstances,  that  he  had  not  vol- 
unteered the  information.  It  may,  of  course, 
have  been  for  the  sake  of  the  brother  and  sister. 
Hepworth  is  a  common  enough  name  in  the 
north.  He  may  have  hoped  to  keep  the  family 
out  of  connection  with  the  case. 

As  regards  the  woman,  my  friend  could  learn 
nothing  further,  beyond  the  fact  that,  in  her 
contract  with  the  music-hall  agent  in  Rotterdam 
she  had  described  herself  as  the  daughter  of  an 
English  musician,  and  had  stated  that  both  her 
parents  were  dead.  She  may  have  engaged  her- 
self without  knowing  the  character  of  the  hall, 
and  the  man,  Charlie  Martin,  with  his  handsome 
face  and  pleasing  sailor  ways,  and  at  least  an 
Englishman,  may  have  seemed  to  her  a  welcome 
escape. 

She  may  have  been  passionately  fond  of  him, 
and  young  Hepworth — crazy  about  her,  for  she 
was  beautiful  enough  to  turn  any  man's  head — 
may  in  Martin's  absence  have  lied  to  her,  told 


32  THE  STREET  OF 

her  he  was  dead — Lord  knows  what ! — to  induce 
her  to  marry  him.  The  murder  may  have 
seemed  to  her  a  sort  of  grim  justice. 

But  even  so,  her  cold-blooded  callousness  was 
surely  abnormal!  She  had  married  him,  lived 
with  him  for  nearly  a  year.  To  the  Jetsons  she 
had  given  the  impression  of  being  a  woman 
deeply  in  love  with  her  husband.  It  could  not 
have  been  mere  acting  kept  up  day  after  day. 

" There  was  something  else.''  We  were  dis- 
cussing the  case  in  my  friend's  chambers.  His 
brief  of  eleven  years  ago  was  open  before  him. 
He  was  pacing  up  and  down  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  thinking  as  he  talked.  ' '  Something 
that  never  came  out.  There  was  a  curious  feel- 
ing she  gave  me  in  that  moment  when  sentence 
was  pronounced  upon  her.  It  was  as  if,  instead 
of  being  condemned,  she  had  triumphed.  Act- 
ing? If  she  had  acted  during  the  trial,  pre- 
tended remorse,  even  pity,  I  could  have  got  her 
off  with  five  years.  She  seemed  to  be  unable  to 
disguise  the  absolute  physical  relief  she  felt  at 
the  thought  that  he  was  dead,  that  his  hand 
would  never  again  touch  her.  There  must  have 
been  something  that  had  suddenly  been  revealed 


THE  BLANK  WALL  33 

to  her,  something  that  had  turned  her  love  to 
hate. 

"  There  must  be  something  fine  about  the 
man,  too."  That  was  another  suggestion  that 
came  to  him  as  he  stood  staring  out  of  the  win- 
dow across  the  river.  " She's  paid  and  has  got 
her  receipt,  but  he  is  still '  wanted. '  He  is  risk- 
ing his  neck  every  evening  he  watches  for  the 
raising  of  that  blind.' ' 

His  thought  took  another  turn.  "Yet  how 
could  he  have  let  her  go  through  those  ten  years 
of  living  death  while  he  walked  the  streets  scot 
free?  Some  time  during  the  trial — the  evidence 
piling  up  against  her  day  by  day — why  didn't 
he  come  forward,  if  only  to  stand  beside  her? 
Get  himself  hanged,  if  only  out  of  mere  de- 
cency?" 

He  sat  down,  took  the  brief  up  in  his  hand 
without  looking  at  it. 

"Or  was  that  the  reward  that  she  claimed? 
That  he  should  wait,  keeping  alive  the  one  hope 
that  would  make  the  suffering  possible  to  her? 
Yes,"  he  continued,  musing,  "I  can  see  a  man 
who  cared  for  a  woman  taking  that  as  his  pun- 
ishment. ' ' 


34  THE  STREET  OF 

Now  that  his  interest  in  the  case  had  been  re- 
vived, he  seemed  unable  to  keep  it  out  of  his 
mind.  Since  our  joint  visit  I  had  once  or  twice 
passed  through  the  street  by  myself,  and  on  the 
last  occasion  had  again  seen  the  raising  of  the 
blind.  It  obsessed  him:  the  desire  to  meet  the 
man  face  to  face.  A  handsome,  bold,  masterful 
man,  he  conceived  him.  But  there  must  be 
something  more  for  such  a  woman  to  have  sold 
her  soul — almost,  one  might  say — for  the  sake 
of  him. 

There  was  just  one  chance  of  succeeding. 
Each  time  he  had  come  from  the  direction 
of  the  Edgware  Road.  By  keeping  well  out 
of  sight  at  the  other  end  of  the  street,  and 
watching  till  he  entered  it,  one  might  time  one's 
self  to  come  upon  him  just  under  the  lamp.  He 
would  hardly  be  likely  to  turn  and  go  back :  that 
would  be  to  give  himself  away.  He  would  prob- 
ably content  himself  with  pretending  to  be  like 
ourselves,  merely  hurrying  through,  and  in  his 
turn  watching  till  we  had  disappeared. 

Fortune  seemed  inclined  to  favour  us.  About 
the  usual  time  the  blind  was  gently  raised,  and 
very  soon  afterward  there  came  round  the  cor- 


THE  BLANK  WALL  35 

ner  the  figure  of  a  man.  We  entered  the  street 
ourselves  a  few  seconds  later,  and  it  seemed 
likely  that,  as  we  had  planned,  we  should  come 
face  to  face  with  him  under  the  gaslight.  He 
walked  towards  us,  stooping  and  with  bent  head. 
We  expected  him  to  pass  the  house  by.  To  our 
surprise,  he  stopped  when  he  came  to  it  and 
pushed  open  the  gate.  In  another  moment  we 
should  have  lost  all  chance  of  seeing  anything 
more  of  him  except  his  bent  back.  With  a 
couple  of  strides  my  friend  was  behind  him. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder  and 
forced  him  to  turn  around.  It  was  an  old,  wrin- 
kled face,  with  gentle,  rather  watery  eyes. 

We  were  both  so  taken  aback  that  for  a  mo- 
ment we  could  say  nothing.  My  friend  stam- 
mered out  an  apology  about  having  mistaken 
the  house,  and  rejoined  me.  At  the  corner  we 
burst  out  laughing  almost  simultaneously.  And 
then  my  friend  suddenly  stopped  and  stared 
at  me. 

1 '  Hep  worth 's  old  clerk, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Ellenby. ' ' 
#  #  #  #  # 

It  seemed  to  him  monstrous.  The  man  had 
been  more  than  a  clerk.    The  family  had  treated 


36  THE  STREET  OF 

him  as  a  friend.  Hepworth's  father  had  set  him 
up  in  business.  For  the  murdered  lad  he  had 
had  a  sincere  attachment :  he  had  left  that  con- 
viction on  all  of  them.  What  was  the  meaning 
of  it? 

A  directory  was  on  the  mantelpiece.  It  was 
the  next  afternoon.  I  had  called  upon  him  in 
his  chambers.  It  was  just  an  idea  that  came 
to  me.  I  crossed  over  and  opened  it,  and  there 
was  his  name,  "Ellenby  &  Co.,  Ship's  Fur- 
nishers,' '  in  a  court  off  the  Minories. 

Was  he  helping  her  for  the  sake  of  his  dead 
master — trying  to  get  her  away  from  the  man? 
But  why?  The  woman  had  stood  by  and 
watched  the  lad  murdered.  How  could  he  bear 
even  to  look  on  her  again? 

Unless  there  had  been  that  something  that 
had  not  come  out — something  he  had  learned 
later — that  excused  even  that  monstrous  cal- 
lousness of  hers. 

Yet  what  could  there  be?  It  had  all  been  so 
planned — so  cold-blooded.  That  shaving  in  the 
dining-room!  It  was  that  which  seemed  most 
to  stick  in  his  throat.  She  must  have  brought 
him  down  a  looking-glass:  there  was  not  one 


THE  BLANK  WALL  37 

in  the  room.  Why  couldn't  he  have  gone  up- 
stairs into  the  bathroom,  where  Hepworth  al- 
ways shaved  himself,  where  he  would  have 
found  everything  to  his  hand? 

He  had  been  moving  about  the  room  talking 
disjoint edly  as  he  paced,  and  suddenly  he 
stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

"Why  in  the  dining-room ?"  he  demanded  of 
me. 

He  was  jingling  some  keys  in  his  pocket. 
It  was  a  habit  of  his  when  cross-examining,  and 
I  felt  as  if  somehow  I  knew,  and  without  think- 
ing— so  it  seemed  to  me — I  answered  him. 

" Perhaps,"  I  said,  "it  was  easier  to  bring  a 
razor  down  than  to  carry  a  dead  man  up. ' ' 

He  leaned  with  his  arms  across  the  table,  his 
eyes  glittering  with  excitement. 

"Can't  you  see  it!"  he  said.  "That  little 
back  parlour  with  its  fussy  ornaments.  The 
three  of  them  standing  round  the  table,  Hep- 
worth's  hands  nervously  clutching  a  chair.  The 
reproaches,  the  taunts,  the  threats.  Young 
Hepworth — he  struck  everyone  as  a  weak  man, 
a  man  physically  afraid — white,  stammering, 
not  knowing  which  way  to  look.    The  woman's 


38  THE  STREET  OF 

eyes  turning  from  one  to  the  other.  That  flash 
of  contempt  again — she  could  not  help  it — fol- 
lowed, worse  still,  by  pity.  If  only  he  could 
have  answered  back,  held  his  own!  If  only  he 
had  not  been  afraid !  And  then  that  fatal  turn- 
ing away  with  a  sneering  laugh  one  imagines, 
the  bold,  dominating  eyes  no  longer  there  to 
cower  him. 

*  *  That  must  have  been  the  moment.  The  bul- 
let, if  you  remember,  entered  through  the  back 
of  the  man's  neck.  Hepworth  must  always  have 
been  picturing  to  himself  this  meeting — tenants 
of  garden  suburbs  do  not  carry  loaded  revolvers 
as  a  habit — dwelling  upon  it  till  he  had  worked 
himself  up  into  a  frenzy  of  hate  and  fear. 
Weak  men  always  fly  to  extremes.  If  there  was 
no  other  way,  he  would  kill  him. 

' ' Can't  you  hear  the  silence?  After  the 
reverberations  had  died  away!  And  then  they 
are  both  down  on  their  knees,  patting  him,  feel- 
ing for  his  heart.  The  man  must  have  gone 
down  like  a  felled  ox;  there  were  no  traces  of 
blood  on  the  carpet.  The  house  is  far  from  any 
neighbour;  the  shot  in  all  probability  has 
not  been  heard.    If   only   they   can  get   rid 


THE  BLANK  WALL  39 

of  the  body.  The  pond — not  a  hundred  yards 
away!" 

He  reached  for  the  brief,  still  lying  among  his 
papers:  hurriedly  turned  the  scored  pages. 

"What's  easier?  A  house  being  built  on  the 
very  next  plot.  Wheelbarrows  to  be  had  for 
the  taking.  A  line  of  planks  reaching  down  to 
the  edge.  Depth  of  water  where  the  body  was 
discovered  four  feet  six  inches.  Nothing  to  do 
but  just  tip  up  the  barrow. 

1 '  Think  a  minute.  Must  weigh  him  down,  lest 
he  rise  to  accuse  us;  weight  him  heavily,  so 
that  he  will  sink  lower  and  lower  into  the  soft 
mud,  lie  there  till  he  rots. 

' '  Think  again.  Think  it  out  to  the  end.  Sup- 
pose, in  spite  of  all  our  precautions,  he  does 
rise?  Suppose  the  chain  slips?  The  workmen 
going  to  and  fro  for  water — suppose  they  do 
discover  him? 

"He  is  lying  on  his  back,  remember.  They 
would  have  turned  him  over  to  feel  for  his 
heart.  Have  closed  his  eyes,  most  probably, 
not  liking  their  stare. 

"It  would  be  the  woman  who  first  thought 
of   it.     She   has    seen   them   both   lying   with 


40  THE  STREET  OF 

closed  eyes  beside  her.  It  may  have  always 
been  in  her  mind,  the  likeness  between  them. 
With  Hepworth's  watch  in  his  pocket,  Hep- 
worth's  ring  on  his  finger!  If  only  it 
was  not  for  the  beard,  that  fierce,  curling  red 
beard ! 

"They  creep  to  the  window  and  peer  out. 
Fog  still  thick  as  soup.  Not  a  soul,  not  a  sound. 
Plenty  of  time. 

"Then  to  get  away:  to  hide  till  one  is  sure. 
Put  on  the  mackintosh.  A  man  in  a  yellow 
mackintosh  may  have  been  seen  to  enter;  let 
him  be  seen  to  go  away.  In  some  dark  corner 
or  some  empty  railway  carriage  take  it  off  and 
roll  it  up.  Then  make  for  the  office.  Wait  there 
for  Ellenby.  True  as  steel,  Ellenby;  good 
business  man.    Be  guided  by  Ellenby." 

He  flung  the  brief  from  him  with  a  laugh. 

"Why,  there's  not  a  missing  link,"  he  cried. 
"And  to  think  that  not  a  fool  among  us  ever 
thought  of  it!" 

"Everything  fitting  into  its  place,"  I  sug- 
gested, ' '  except  young  Hepworth.  Can  you  see 
him,  from  your  description  of  him,  sitting 
down  and  coolly  elaborating  plans  for  escape, 


THE  BLANK  WALL  41 

the  corpse  of  the  murdered  man  stretched  be- 
side him  on  the  hearthrug  !" 

"No,"  he  answered.  "But  I  can  see  her  do- 
ing it,  a  woman  who  for  week  after  week  kept 
silence  while  we  raged  and  stormed  at  her,  a 
woman  who  for  three  hours  sat  like  a  statue 
while  old  Cutbush  painted  her  to  a  crowded 
court  as  a  modern  Jezebel,  who  rose  up  from 
her  seat  when  that  sentence  of  fifteen  years' 
penal  servitude  was  pronounced  upon  her  with 
a  look  of  triumph  in  her  eyes,  and  walked  out 
of  court  as  if  she  had  been  a  girl  going  to  meet 
her  lover. 

"I'll  wager,"  he  added,  "it  was  she  who  did 
the  shaving.  Hepworth  would  have  cut  him, 
even  with  a  safety  razor." 

"It  must  have  been  the  other  one,  Martin,"  I 
said,  "that  she  loathed.  That  almost  exulta- 
tion at  the  thought  that  he  was  dead,"  I  re- 
minded him. 

' '  Yes, ' '  he  mused.  ' l  She  made  no  attempt  to 
disguise  it.  Curious  there  having  been  that 
likeness  between  them."  He  looked  at  his 
watch.  "Do  you  care  to  come  with  me?"  he 
said. 


42  THE  STREET  OF 

"  Where  are  you  going  V7  I  asked  him. 
"We  may  just  catch  him,"   he   answered. 
"Ellenby  &  Co." 

***** 

The  office  was  on  the  top  floor  of  an  old- 
fashioned  house  in  a  cul-de-sac  off  the  Minories. 
Mr.  Ellenby  was  out,  so  the  lanky  office-boy  in- 
formed us,  but  would  be  sure  to  return  before 
evening ;  and  we  sat  and  waited  by  the  meagre 
fire  till,  as  the  dusk  was  falling,  we  heard  his 
footsteps  on  the  creaking  stairs. 

He  halted  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  recog- 
nising us  apparently  without  surprise;  and 
then,  with  a  hope  that  we  had  not  been  kept 
waiting  long,  he  led  the  way  into  an  inner  room. 

"I  do  not  suppose  you  remember  me,"  said 
my  friend,  as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed.  "I 
fancy  that,  until  last  night,  you  never  saw  me 
without  my  wig  and  gown.  It  makes  a  differ- 
ence.   I  was  Mrs.  Hep  worth's  senior  counsel." 

It  was  unmistakable,  the  look  of  relief  that 
came  into  the  old,  dim  eyes.  Evidently  the  in- 
cident of  the  previous  evening  had  suggested 
to  him  an  enemy. 

' '  You  were  very  good, ' '  he  murmured.  ' '  Mrs. 


THE  BLANK  WALL  43 

Hepwortk  was  overwrought  at  the  time,  but 
she  was  very  grateful,  I  know,  for  all  your 
efforts.' ' 

I  thought  I  detected  a  faint  smile  on  my 
friend's  lips. 

"I  must  apologise  for  my  rudeness  to  you  of 
last  night,"  he  continued.  "I  expected,  when  I 
took  the  liberty  of  turning  you  round,  that  I 
was  going  to  find  myself  face  to  face  with  a 
much  younger  man." 

"I  took  you  to  be  a  detective,"  answered  El- 
lenby  in  his  soft,  gentle  voice.  "You  will  for- 
give me,  I'm  sure.  I  am  rather  short-sighted. 
Of  course,  I  can  only  conjecture,  but  if  you  will 
take  my  word,  I  can  assure  you  that  Mrs.  Hep- 
worth  has  never  seen  or  heard  from  the  man 
Charlie  Martin  since  the  date  of" — he  hesi- 
tated a  moment — ' '  of  the  murder. ' ' 

"It  would  have  been  difficult,"  agreed  my 
friend,  "seeing  that  Charlie  Martin  lies  buried 
in  Highgate  Cemetery." 

Old  as  he  was,  he  sprang  from  his  chair, 
white  and  trembling. 

"What  have  you  come  here  for?"  he  de- 
manded. 


44  THE  STREET  OF 

"I  took  more  than  a  professional  interest  in 
the  case, ' '  answered  the  other.  i  '  Ten  years  ago 
I  was  younger  than  I  am  now.  It  may  have 
been  her  youth — her  extreme  beauty.  I  think 
Mrs.  Hepworth,  in  allowing  her  husband  to  visit 
her — here  where  her  address  is  known  to  the 
police,  and  watch  at  any  moment  may  be  set 
upon  her — is  placing  him  in  a  position  of  grave 
danger.  If  you  care  to  lay  before  me  any  facts 
that  will  allow  me  to  judge  of  the  case,  I  am 
prepared  to  put  my  experience,  and,  if  need  be, 
my  assistance,  at  her  service. ' ' 

His  self-possession  had  returned  to  him. 

"If  you  will  excuse  me,"  he  said,  "I  will  tell 
the  boy  that  he  can  go." 

We  heard  him,  a  moment  later,  turn  the  key 
in  the  outer  door ;  and  when  he  came  back  and 
had  made  up  the  fire,  he  told  us  the  beginning 
of  the  story.  . 

The  name  of  the  man  buried  in  Highgate 
Cemetery  was  Hepworth,  after  all.  Not 
Michael,  but  Alex,  the  elder  brother. 

From  boyhood  he  had  been  violent,  brutal, 
unscrupulous.  Judging  from  Ellenby's  story, 
it  was  difficult  to  accept  him  as  a  product  of 


THE  BLANK  WALL  45 

modern  civilisation.  Bather  he  would  seem 
to  have  been  a  throwback  to  some  savage, 
buccaneering  ancestor.  To  expect  him  to  work, 
while  he  could  live  in  vicious  idleness  at  some- 
body's else  expense,  was  found  to  be  hopeless. 
His  debts  were  paid  for  about  the  third  or 
fourth  time,  and  he  was  shipped  off  to  the  Col- 
onies. Unfortunately,  there  were  no  means  of 
keeping  him  there.  So  soon  as  the  money  pro- 
vided him  had  been  squandered,  he  returned,  de- 
manding more  by  menaces  and  threats.  Meet- 
ing with  unexpected  firmness,  he  seems  to  have 
regarded  theft  and  forgery  as  the  only  alterna- 
tive left  to  him.  To  save  him  from  punishment 
and  the  family  name  from  disgrace,  his  parents ' 
savings  were  sacrificed.  It  was  grief  and  shame 
that,  according  to  Ellenby,  killed  them  both 
within  a  few  months  of  one  another. 

Deprived  by  this  blow  of  what  he  no  doubt 
had  come  to  consider  his  natural  means  of  sup- 
port, and  his  sister,  fortunately  for  herself,  be- 
ing well  out  of  his  reach,  he  next  fixed  upon  his 
brother  Michael  as  his  stay-by.  Michael,  weak, 
timid,  and  not,  perhaps,  without  some  remains 
of  boyish  affection  for  a  strong,  handsome  elder 


46  THE  STREET  OF 

brother,  foolishly  yielded.  The  demands,  of 
course,  increased  until,  in  the  end,  it  came  al- 
most as  a  relief  when  the  man's  vicious  life  led 
to  his  getting  mixed  up  with  a  crime  of  a  par- 
ticularly odious  nature.  He  was  anxious  now 
for  his  own  sake  to  get  away,  and  Michael,  with 
little  enough  to  spare  for  himself,  provided  him 
with  the  means,  on  the  solemn  understanding 
that  he  would  never  return. 

But  the  worry  and  misery  of  it  all  had  left 
young  Michael  a  broken  man.  Unable  to  con- 
centrate his  mind  any  longer  upon  his  profes- 
sion, his  craving  was  to  get  away  from  all  his 
old  associations — to  make  a  fresh  start  in  life. 
It  was  Ellenby  who  suggested  London  and  the 
ship-furnishing  business,  where  Michael's  small 
remaining  capital  would  be  of  service.  The 
name  of  Hepworth  would  be  valuable  in  ship- 
ping circles,  and  Ellenb»y,  arguing  this  consid- 
eration, but  chiefly  with  the  hope  of  giving 
young  Michael  more  interest  in  the  business, 
had  insisted  that  the  firm  should  be  Hepworth 
&Co. 

They  had  not  been  started  a  year  before  the 
man  returned,  as  usual  demanding  more  money. 


THE  BLANK  WALL  47 

Michael,  acting  under  Ellenby's  guidance,  re- 
fused in  terms  that  convinced  his  brother  that 
the  game  of  bullying  was  up.  He  waited  a  while 
and  then  wrote  pathetically  that  he  was  ill  and 
starving.  If  only  for  the  sake  of  his  young 
wife,  would  not  Michael  come  and  see  them? 

This  was  the  first  they  had  heard  of  his  mar- 
riage. There  was  just  a  faint  hope  that  it 
might  have  effected  a  change,  and  Michael, 
against  Ellenby's  advice,  decided  to  go.  In  a 
miserable  lodging-house  in  the  East  End  he 
found  the  young  wife,  but  not  his  brother,  who 
did  not  return  till  he  was  on  the  point  of  leav- 
ing. In  the  interval  the  girl  seems  to  have  con- 
fided her  story  to  Michael. 

She  had  been  a  singer,  engaged  at  a  music 
hall  in  Rotterdam.  There  Alex  Hepworth,  call- 
ing himself  Charlie  Martin,  had  met  her  and 
made  love  to  her.  When  he  chose,  he  could  be 
agreeable  enough,  and  no  doubt  her  youth  and 
beauty  had  given  to  his  protestations,  for  the 
time  being,  a  genuine  ring  of  admiration  and 
desire.  It  was  to  escape  from  her  surround- 
ings, more  than  anything  else,  that  she  had  con- 
sented.   She  was  little  more  than  a  child,  and 


48  THE  STREET  OF 

anything  seemed  preferable  to  the  nightly  hor- 
ror to  which  her  life  exposed  her. 

He  had  never  married  her.  At  least,  that  was 
her  belief  at  the  time.  During  his  first  drunken 
bout  he  had  flung  it  in  her  face  that  the  form 
they  had  gone  through  was  mere  bunkum.  Un- 
fortunately for  her,  this  was  a  lie.  He  had  al- 
ways been  coolly  calculating.  It  was  probably 
with  the  idea  of  a  safe  investment  that  he  had 
seen  to  it  that  the  ceremony  had  been  strictly 
legal. 

Her  life  with  him,  so  soon  as  the  first  novelty 
of  her  had  worn  off,  had  been  unspeakable. 
The  band  that  she  wore  round  her  neck  was  to 
hide  where,  in  a  fit  of  savagery  because  she  had 
refused  to  earn  money  for  him  on  the  streets, 
he  had  tried  to  cut  her  throat.  Now  that  she 
had  got  back  to  England,  she  intended  to  leave 
him.  If  he  followed  and  killed  her,  she  did  not 
care. 

It  was  for  her  sake  that  young  Hepworth 
eventually  offered  to  help  his  brother  again,  on 
the  condition  that  he  would  go  away — by  him- 
self. To  this  the  other  agreed.  He  seems  to 
have  given  a  short  display  of  remorse.    There 


THE  BLANK  WALL  49 

must  have  been  a  grin  on  his  face  as  he  turned 
away.  His  cunning  eyes  had  foreseen  what  was 
likely  to  happen.  The  idea  of  blackmail  was 
no  doubt  in  his  mind  from  the  beginning.  With 
the  charge  of  bigamy  as  a  weapon  in  his  hand 
he  might  rely  for  the  rest  of  his  life  upon  a 
steady  and  increasing  income. 

Michael  saw  his  brother  off  as  a  second-class 
passenger  on  a  ship  bound  for  the  Cape.  Of 
course,  there  was  little  chance  of  his  keeping  his 
word,  but  there  was  always  the  chance  of  his 
getting  himself  knocked  on  the  head  in  some 
brawl.  Anyhow,  he  would  be  out  of  the  way  for 
a  season,  and  the  girl,  Lola,  would  be  left.  A 
month  later  he  married  her,  and  four  months 
after  that  received  a  letter  from  his  brother 
containing  messages  to  Mrs.  Martin  from 
"her  loving  husband,  Charlie,"  who  hoped  be- 
fore long  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her 
again. 

Inquiries  through  the  English  consul  in  Rot- 
terdam proved  that  the  threat  was  no  mere 
bluff.  The  marriage  had  been  legal  and 
binding. 

What  happened  on  the  night  of  the  murder 


50  THE  STREET  OF 

was  very  much  as  my  friend  had  reconstructed 
it.  Ellenby,  reaching  the  office  at  his  usual  time 
the  next  morning,  had  found  Hepworth  waiting 
for  him.  There  he  had  remained  in  hiding  until 
one  morning,  with  dyed  hair  and  a  slight  mous- 
tache, he  had  ventured  forth. 

Had  the  man's  death  been  brought  about  by 
any  other  means,  Ellenby  would  have  counselled 
his  coming  forward  and  facing  his  trial,  as  he 
himself  was  anxious  to  do ;  but,  viewed  in  con- 
junction with  the  relief  the  man's  death  must 
have  been  to  both  of  them,  that  loaded  revolver 
was  too  suggestive  of  premeditation.  The  iso- 
lation of  the  house,  that  conveniently  near 
pond,  would  look  as  if  thought  of  beforehand. 
Even  if,  pleading  extreme  provocation,  Michael 
escaped  the  rope,  a  long  term  of  penal  servitude 
would  be  inevitable. 

Nor  was  it  certain  that  even  then  the  woman 
would  go  free.  The  murdered  man  would  still, 
by  a  strange  freak,  be  her  husband:  the  mur- 
derer— in  the  eye  of  the  law — her  lover. 

Her  passionate  will  had  prevailed.  Young 
Hepworth  had  sailed  for  America.  There  he 
had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  employment — of 


THE  BLANK  WALL  51 

course,  under  another  name — in  an  architect's 
office;  and  later  had  set  up  for  himself.  Since 
the  night  of  the  murder  they  had  not  seen  each 
other  till  some  three  weeks  ago. 

#  #  *  #  * 

I  never  saw  the  woman  again.  My  friend,  I 
believe,  called  on  her.  Hepworth  had  already 
returned  to  America,  and  my  friend  had  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  for  her  some  sort  of  a  police 
permit  that  practically  left  her  free. 

Sometimes  of  an  evening  I  find  myself  pass- 
ing through  the  street.  And  always  I  have  the 
feeling  of  having  blundered  into  an  empty 
theatre — where  the  play  is  ended. 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 


THE  PREFACE 

THE  Doctor  never  did  believe  this  story, 
but  claims  for  it  that,  to  a  great  extent, 
it  has  altered  his  whole  outlook  on  life. 

"Of  course,  what  actually  happened — what 
took  place  under  my  own  nose,"  contin- 
ued the  Doctor,  "I  do  not  dispute.  And  then 
there  is  the  case  of  Mrs.  Marigold.  That  was 
unfortunate,  I  admit,  and  still  is,  especially  for 
Marigold.  But,  standing  by  itself,  it  proves 
nothing.  These  fluffy,  giggling  women— as 
often  as  not  it  is  a  mere  shell  that  they  shed 
with  their  first  youth — one  never  knows  what  is 
underneath.  With  regard  to  the  others,  the 
whole  thing  rests  upon  a  simple  scientific  basis. 
The  idea  was  'in  the  air,'  as  we  say — a  passing 
brain-wave.  And  when  it  had  worked  itself  out 
there  was  an  end  of  it.  As  for  all  this  Jack- 
and-the-Beanstalk  tomfoolery " 

There  came  from  the  darkening  uplands  the 
sound  of  a  lost  soul.  It  rose  and  fell  and  died 
away. 

55 


56  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

"Blowing  stones, "  explained  the  Doctor, 
stopping  to  refill  his  pipe.  "One  finds  them  in 
these  parts.  Hollowed  out  during  the  glacial 
period.  Always  just  about  twilight  that  one 
hears  it.  Rush  of  air  caused  by  sudden  sinking 
of  the  temperature.  That's  how  all  these  sort 
of  ideas  get  started." 

The  Doctor,  having  lit  his  pipe,  resumed  his 
stride. 

"I  don't  say,"  continued  the  Doctor,  "that 
it  would  have  happened  without  her  coming. 
Undoubtedly  it  was  she  who  supplied  the  nec- 
essary psychic  conditions.  There  was  that 
about  her — a  sort  of  atmosphere.  That  quaint 
archaic  French  of  hers — King  Arthur  and  the 
round  table  and  Merlin;  it  seemed  to  recreate 
it  all.  An  artful  minx,  that  is  the  .only  explana- 
tion. But  while  she  was  looking  at  you,  out  of 
that  curious  aloofness  of  hers " 

The  Doctor  left  the  sentence  uncompleted. 

"As  for  old  Littlecherry,"  the  Doctor  began 
again  quite  suddenly,  "that's  his  speciality- 
folklore,  occultism,  all  that  flummery.  If  you 
knocked  at  his  door  with  the  original  Sleeping 
Beauty  on  your  arm  he'd  only  fuss  round  her 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  57 

with  cushions  and  hope  that  she'd  had  a  good 
night.  Found  a  seed  once — chipped  it  out  of  an 
old  fossil,  and  grew  it  in  a  pot  in  his  study. 
About  the  most  dilapidated  weed  you  ever  saw. 
Talked  about  it  as  if  he  had  rediscovered  the 
Elixir  of  Life.  Even  if  he  didn't  say  anything 
in  actually  so  many  words,  there  was  the  way 
he  went  about.  That  of  itself  was  enough  to 
have  started  the  whole  thing,  to  say  nothing  of 
that  loony  old  Irish  housekeeper  of  his,  with 
her  head  stuffed  full  of  elves  and  banshees  and 
the  Lord  knows  what." 

Again  the  Doctor  lapsed  into  silence.  One 
by  one  the  lights  of  the  village  peeped  upward 
out  of  the  depths.  A  long,  low  line  of  light, 
creeping  like  some  luminous  dragon  across  the 
horizon,  showed  the  track  of  the  Great  Western 
express  moving  stealthily  towards  Swindon. 

"It  was  altogether  out  of  the  common,"  con- 
tinued the  Doctor,  "quite  out  of  the  common, 
the  whole  thing.  But  if  you  are  going  to  accept 
old  Littlecherry's  explanation  of  it " 

The  Doctor  struck  his  foot  against  a  long 
grey  stone,  half  hidden  in  the  grass,  and  only 
just  saved  himself  from  falling. 


58  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

" Remains  of  some  old  cromlech,"  explained 
the  Doctor.  "Somewhere  about  here,  if  we 
were  to  dig  down,  we  should  find  a  withered 
bundle  of  bones  crouching  over  the  dust  of  a 
prehistoric  luncheon-basket.  Interesting  neigh- 
bourhood !" 

The  descent  was  rough.  The  Doctor  did  not 
talk  again  until  we  had  reached  the  outskirts 
of  the  village. 

"I  wonder  what's  become  of  them?"  mused 
the  Doctor.  "A  rum  go,  the  whole  thing.  I 
should  like  to  have  got  to  the  bottom  of  it." 

We  had  reached  the  Doctor's  gate.  The 
Doctor  pushed  it  open  and  passed  in.  He 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  me. 

"A  taking  little  minx,"  I  heard  him  mutter- 
ing to  himself  as  he  fumbled  with  the  door. 
"And  no  doubt  meant  well.  But  as  for  that 
cock-and-bull  story— — " 

I  pieced  it  together  from  the  utterly  diver- 
gent versions  furnished  me  by  the  Professor 
and  the  Doctor,  assisted,  so  far  as  later  inci- 
dents are  concerned,  by  knowledge  common  to 
the  village. 


Malvina  of  Brittany 
i 

THE  STORY 

IT  commenced,  so  I  calculate,  about  the  year 
2000  b.c,  or,  to  be  more  precise — for  figures 
are  not  the  strong  point  of  the  old  chroniclers — 
when  King  Heremon  ruled  over  Ireland  and 
Harbundia  was  Queen  of  the  White  Ladies  of 
Brittany,  the  fairy  Malvina  being  her  favourite 
attendant.  It  is  with  Malvina  that  this  story  is 
chiefly  concerned.  Various  quite  pleasant  hap- 
penings are  recorded  to  her  credit.  The  White 
Ladies  belonged  to  the  "good  people,' '  and,  on 
the  whole,  lived  up  to  their  reputation.  But  in 
Malvina,  side  by  side  with  much  that  is  com- 
mendable, there  appears  to  have  existed  a  most 
reprehensible  spirit  of  mischief,  displaying 
itself  in  pranks  that,  excusable,  or  at  all  events 

59 


60  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

understandable,  in,  say,  a  pixy  or  a  pigwidgeon, 
strike  one  as  altogether  unworthy  of  a  well- 
principled  White  Lady,  posing  as  the  friend 
and  benefactress  of  mankind.  For  merely  re- 
fusing to  dance  with  her — at  midnight,  by  the 
shores  of  a  mountain  lake ;  neither  the  time  nor 
the  place  calculated  to  appeal  to  an  elderly  gen- 
tleman, suffering  possibly  from  rheumatism — 
she  on  one  occasion  transformed  an  eminently 
respectable  proprietor  of  tin  mines  into  a  night- 
ingale, necessitating  a  change  of  habits  that  to 
a  business  man  must  have  been  singularly  irri- 
tating. On  another  occasion  a  quite  important 
queen,  having  had  the  misfortune  to  quarrel 
with  Malvina  over  some  absurd  point  of  eti- 
quette in  connection  with  a  lizard,  seems,  on 
waking  the  next  morning,  to  have  found  her- 
self changed  into  what  one  judges,  from  the 
somewhat  vague  description  afforded  by  the 
ancient  chroniclers,  to  have  been  a  sort  of  vege- 
table marrow. 

Such  changes,  according  to  the  Professor, 
who  is  prepared  to  maintain  that  evidence  of 
an  historical  nature  exists  sufficient  to  prove 
that  the  White  Ladies  formed  at  one  time  an 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  61 

actual  living  community,  must  be  taken  in  an 
allegorical  sense.  Just  as  modern  lunatics 
believe  themselves  to  be  china  vases  or  poll- 
parrots,  and  think  and  behave  as  such,  so  it 
must  have  been  easy,  the  Professor  argues,  for 
beings  of  superior  intelligence  to  have  exerted 
hypnotic  influence  upon  the  superstitious  sav- 
ages by  whom  they  were  surrounded,  and  who, 
intellectually  considered,  could  have  been  little 
more  than  children. 

"Take  Nebuchadnezzar. ' '  I  am  still  quoting 
the  Professor.  "Nowadays  we  should  put  him 
into  a  straight  waistcoat.  Had  he  lived  in 
Northern  Europe  instead  of  Southern  Asia, 
legend  would  have  told  us  how  some  Kobold  or 
Stromkarl  had  turned  him  into  a  composite 
amalgamation  of  a  serpent,  a  cat  and  a  kan- 
garoo.'J  Be  that  as  it  may,  this  passion  for 
change — in  other  people — seems  to  have  grown 
upon  Malvina  until  she  must  have  become  little 
short  of  a  public  nuisance,  and  eventually  it 
landed  her  in  trouble. 

The  incident  is  unique  in  the  annals  of  the 
White  Ladies,  and  the  chroniclers  dwell  upon  it 
with    evident    satisfaction.      It    came    about 


62  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

through  the  betrothal  of  King  Heremon's  only- 
son,  Prince  Gerbot,  to  the  Princess  Berchta  of 
Normandy.  Malvina  seems  to  have  said  noth- 
ing, but  to  have  bided  her  time.  The  White 
Ladies  of  Brittany,  it  must  be  remembered, 
were  not  fairies  pure  and  simple.  Under  cer- 
tain conditions  they  were  capable  of  becoming 
women,  and  this  fact,  one  takes  it,  must  have 
exerted  a  disturbing  influence  upon  their  rela- 
tionships with  eligible  male  mortals.  Prince 
Gerbot  may  not  have  been  altogether  blame- 
less. Young  men  in  those  sadly  unenlightened 
days  may  not,  in  their  dealings  with  ladies, 
white  or  otherwise,  have  always  been  the  soul 
of  discretion  and  propriety.  One  would  like  to 
think  the  best  of  her. 

But  even  the  best  is  indefensible.  On  the 
day  appointed  for  the  wedding  she  seems  to 
have  surpassed  herself.  Into  what  particular 
shape  or  form  she  altered  the  wretched  Prince 
Gerbot;  or  into  what  shape  or  form  she  per- 
suaded him  that  he  had  been  altered,  it  really, 
so  far  as  the  moral  responsibility  of  Malvina 
is  concerned,  seems  to  be  immaterial;  the 
chronicle  does  not  state:  evidently  something 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  63 

too  indelicate  for  a  self-respecting  chronicler 
to  even  hint  at.  As,  judging  from  other  pas- 
sages in  the  book,  sqneamishness  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  the  author's  literary  failing,  the 
sensitive  reader  can  feel  only  grateful  for  the 
omission.  It  would  have  been  altogether  too 
harrowing. 

It  had,  of  course,  from  Malvina's  point  of 
view,  the  desired  effect.  The  Princess  Berchta 
appears  to  have  given  one  look  and  then  to 
have  fallen  fainting  into  the  arms  of  her  attend- 
ants. The  marriage  was  postponed  indefinitely, 
and  Malvina,  one  sadly  suspects,  chortled.  Her 
triumph  was  short-lived. 

Unfortunately  for  her  King  Heremon1  had 
always  been  a  patron  of  the  arts  and  science 
of  his  period.  Among  his  friends  were  to  be 
reckoned  magicians,  genii,  the  Nine  Korrigans 
or  Fays  of  Brittany — all  sorts  of  parties  capa- 
ble of  exerting  influence,  and,  as  events  proved, 
only  too  willing.  Ambassadors  waited  upon 
Queen  Harbundia;  and  Harbundia,  even  had 
she  wished,  as  on  many  previous  occasions,  to 
stand  by  her  favourite,  had  no  alternative. 
The  fairy  Malvina  was  called  upon  to  return 


64  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

to    Prince    Gerbot   his    proper   body    and   all 
therein  contained. 

She  flatly  refused.  A  self-willed,  obstinate 
fairy,  suffering  from  swelled  head.  And  then 
there  was  that  personal  note.  Merely  that  he 
should  marry  the  Princess  Berchta !  She  would 
see  King  Heremon,  and  Anniamus,  in  his  silly 
old  wizard's  robe,  and  the  Seven  Fays  of  Brit- 
tany, and  all  the  rest  of  them !     A  really 

nice  White  Lady  may  not  have  cared  to  finish 
the  sentence,  even  to  herself.  One  imagines 
the  flash  of  the  fairy  eye,  the  stamp  of  the  fairy 
foot.  What  could  they  do  to  her,  any  of  them, 
with  all  their  clacking  of  tongues  and  their  wag- 
ging of  heads?  She,  an  immortal  fairy!  She 
would  change  Prince  Gerbot  back  at  a  time  of 
her  own  choosing.  Let  them  attend  to  their 
own  tricks  and  leave  her  to  mind  hers.  One 
pictures  long  walks  and  talks  between  the  dis- 
tracted Harbundia  and  her  refractory  favour- 
ite— appeals  to  reason,  to  sentiment:  "For  my 
sake."  "Don't  you  isee?"  "After  all,  dear, 
and  even  if  he  did." 

It  seems  to  have  ended  by  Harbundia  losing 
all  patience.    One  thing  there  was  she  could  do 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  65 

that  Malvina  seems  either  not  to  have  known  of 
or  not  to  have  anticipated.  A  solemn  meeting 
of  the  White  Ladies  was  convened  for  the  night 
of  the  midsummer  moon.  The  place  of  meeting 
is  described  by  the  ancient  chroniclers  with 
more  than  their  usual  exactitude.  It  was  on  the 
land  that  the  magician  Kalyb  had,  ages  ago, 
raised  up  above  all  Brittany  to  form  the  grave 
of  King  Taramis.  The  "Sea  of  the  Seven 
Islands"  lay  to  the  north.  One  guesses  it  to  be 
the  ridge  formed  by  the  Arree  Mountains. 
i '  The  Lady  of  the  Fountains ' '  appears  to  have 
been  present,  suggesting  the  deep  green  pool 
from  which  the  river  D  'Argent  takes  its  source. 
Roughly  speaking,  one  would  place  it  half  way 
between  the  modern  towns  of  Morlaix  and  Cal- 
lac.  Pedestrians,  even  of  the  present  day,  speak 
of  the  still  loneliness  of  that  high  plateau,  tree- 
less, houseless,  with  no  sign  of  human  hand 
there  but  that  high,  towering  monolith  round 
which  the  shrill  winds  moan  incessantly.  There, 
possibly  on  some  broken  fragment  of  those 
great  grey  stones,  Queen  Harbundia  sat  in 
judgment.  And  the  judgment  was — and  from 
it  there  was  no  appeal — that  the  fairy  Malvina 


66  MALVINA  OF  BEITTANY 

should  be  cast  out  from  among  the  community 
of  the  White  Ladies  of  Brittany.  Over  the  face 
of  the  earth  she  should  wander,  alone  and 
unforgiven.  Solemnly  from  the  book  of  the 
roll-call  of  the  White  Ladies  the  name  of  Mal- 
vina  was  struck  out  for  ever. 

The  blow  must  have  fallen  upon  Malvina  as 
heavily  as  it  was  unexpected.  Without  a  word, 
without  one  backward  look,  she  seems  to  have 
departed.  One  pictures  the  white,  frozen  face, 
the  wide-open,  unseeing  eyes,  the  trembling, 
uncertain  steps,  the  groping  hands,  the  death- 
like silence  clinging  like  grave-clothes  round 
about  her. 

From  that  night  the  fairy  Malvina  disap- 
pears from  the  book  of  the  chroniclers  of  the 
White  Ladies  of  Brittany,  from  legend  and 
from  folklore  whatsoever.  She  does  not  appear 
again  in  history  till  the  year  a.d.  1914. 


II 

HOW  IT  CAME  ABOUT 

IT  was  on  an  evening  towards  the  end  of 
June,  1914,  that  Flight  Commander  Raf- 
neton,  temporarily  attached  to  the  French 
Squadron  then  harboured  at  Brest,  received 
instructions  by  wireless  to  return  at  once  to  the 
British  Air  Service  Headquarters  at  Farn- 
borough,  in  Hampshire.  The  night,  thanks  to 
a  glorious  full  moon,  would  afford  all  the  light 
he  required,  and  young  Raffleton  determined  to 
set  out  at  once.  He  appears  to  have  left  the 
flying  ground  just  outside  the  arsenal  at  Brest 
about  nine  o'clock.  A  little  beyond  Huelgoat 
he  began  to  experience  trouble  with  the  carbu- 
retter. His  idea  at  first  was  to  push  on  to 
Lannion,  where  he  would  be  able  to  secure 
expert  assistance;  but  matters  only  getting 
worse,  and  noticing  beneath  him  a  convenient 
stretch  of  level  ground,  he  decided  to  descend 
and  attend  to  it  himself.    He  alighted  without 

67 


68  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

difficulty  and  proceeded  to  investigate.  The 
job  took  him,  unaided,  longer  than  he  had  antic- 
ipated. It  was  a  warm,  close  night,  with  hardly 
a  breath  of  wind,  and  when  he  had  finished  he 
was  feeling  hot  and  tired.  He  had  drawn  on 
his  helmet  and  was  on  the  point  of  stepping 
into  his  seat,  when  the  beauty  of  the  night  sug- 
gested to  him  that  it  would  be  pleasant,  before 
starting  off  again,  to  stretch  his  legs  and  cool 
himself  a  little.  He  lit  a  cigar  and  looked 
round  about  him. 

The  plateau  on  which  he  had  alighted  was  a 
table-land  standing  high  above  the  surrounding 
country.  It  stretched  around  him,  treeless, 
houseless.  There  was  nothing  to  break  the  lines 
of  the  horizon  but  a  group  of  gaunt  grey  stones, 
the  remains,  so  he  told  himself,  of  some  ancient 
menhir,  common  enough  to  the  lonely  desert 
lands  of  Brittany.  In  general  the  stones  lie 
overthrown  and  scattered,  but  this  particular 
specimen  had,  by  some  strange  chance,  re- 
mained undisturbed  through  all  the  centuries. 
Mildly  interested,  Flight  Commander  Raffleton 
strolled  leisurely  towards  it.  The  moon  was  at 
its  zenith.    How  still  the  quiet  night  must  have 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  69 

been  was  impressed  upon  him  by  the  fact  that 
he  distinctly  heard,  and  counted,  the  strokes  of 
a  church  clock  which  must  have  been  at  least  six 
miles  away.  He  remembers  looking*  at  his 
watch  and  noting  that  there  was  a  slight  differ- 
ence between  his  own  and  the  church  time.  He 
made  it  eight  minutes  past  twelve.  With  the 
dying  away  of  the  last  vibrations  of  the  distant 
bell  the  silence  and  the  solitude  of  the  place 
seemed  to  return  and  settle  down  upon  it  with 
increased  insistence.  "While  he  was  working  it 
had  not  troubled  him,  but  beside  the  black  shad- 
ows thrown  by  those  hoary  stones  it  had  the 
effect  almost  of  a  presence.  It  was  with  a  sense 
of  relief  that  he  contemplated  returning  to  his 
machine  and  starting  up  his  engine.  It  would 
whir  and  buzz  and  give  back  to  him  a  comfort- 
able feeling  of  life  and  security.  He  would 
walk  round  the  stones  just  once  and  then  be  off. 
It  was  wonderful  how  they  had  defied  old  Time. 
As  they  had  been  placed  there,  quite  possibly 
ten  thousand  years  ago,  so  they  still  stood,  the 
altar  of  that  vast,  empty  sky-roofed  temple. 
And  while  he  was  gazing  at  them,  his  cigar 
between  his  lips,  struggling  with  a  strange  for- 


70  MALVINA  OF  BEITTANY 

gotten  impulse  that  was  tugging  at  his  knees, 
there  came  from  the  very  heart  of  the  great 
grey  stones  the  measured  rise  and  fall  of  a 
soft,  even  breathing. 

Young  Raffleton  frankly  confesses  that  his 
first  impulse  was  to  cut  and  run.  Only  his  sol- 
dier's training  kept  his  feet  firm  on  the  heather. 
Of  course,  the  explanation  was  simple.  Some 
animal  had  made  the  place  its  nest.  But 
then  what  animal  was  ever  known  to  sleep  so 
soundly  as  not  to  be  disturbed  by  human  foot- 
steps ?  If  wounded,  and  so  unable  to  escape,  it 
would  not  be  breathing  with  that  quiet,  soft  reg- 
ularity, contrasting  so  strangely  with  the  still- 
ness and  the  silence  all  round.  Possibly  an  owl's 
nest.  Young  owlets  make  that  sort  of  noise 
— the  "snorers,"  so  country  people  call  them. 
Young  Raffleton  threw  away  his  cigar  and  went 
down  upon  his  knees  to  grope  among  the  shad- 
ows and,  doing  so,  he  touched  something  warm 
and  soft  and  yielding. 

But  it  wasn't  an  owl.  He  must  have  touched 
her  very  lightly,  for  even  then  she  did  not  wake. 
She  lay  there  with  her  head  upon  her  arm. 
And  now  close  to  her,  his  eyes  growing  used  to 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  71 

the  shadows,  he  saw  her  quite  plainly,  the  won- 
der of  the  parted  lips,  the  gleam  of  the  white 
limbs  beneath  their  flimsy  covering. 

Of  course,  what  he  ought  to  have  done  was 
to  have  risen  gently  and  moved  away.  Then 
he  could  have  coughed.  And  if  that  did  not 
wake  her  he  might  have  touched  her  lightly, 
say,  on  the  shoulder,  and  have  called  to  her, 
first  softly,  then  a  little  louder,  "Mademoi- 
selle," or  "Mon  enfant."  Even  better,  he 
might  have  stolen  away  on  tiptoe  and  left  her 
there  sleeping. 

This  idea  does  not  seem  to  have  occurred  to 
him.  One  makes  the  excuse  for  him  that  he  was 
but  three-and-twenty,  that,  framed  in  the  pur- 
ple moonlight,  she  seemed  to  him  the  most  beau- 
tiful creature  his  eyes  had  ever  seen.  And 
then  there  was  the  brooding  mystery  of  it  all, 
that  atmosphere  of  far-off  primeval  times  from 
which  the  roots  of  life  still  draw  their  sap. 
One  takes  it  he  forgot  that  he  was  Flight  Com- 
mander Eaffleton,  officer  and  gentleman;  forgot 
the  proper  etiquette  applying  to  the  case  of 
ladies  found  sleeping  upon  lonely  moors  with- 
out a  chaperon.     Greater  still,  the  possibility 


72  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

that  lie  never  thought  of  anything  at  all,  but, 
just  impelled  by  a  power  beyond  himself,  bent 
down  and  kissed  her. 

Not  a  platonic  kiss  upon  the  brow,  not  a 
brotherly  kiss  upon  the  cheek,  but  a  kiss  full 
upon  the  parted  lips,  a  kiss  of  worship  and 
amazement,  such  as  that  with  which  Adam  in 
all  probability  awakened  Eve. 

Her  eyes  opened,  and,  just  a  little  sleepily, 
she  looked  at  him.  There  could  have  been  no 
doubt  in  her  mind  as  to  what  had  happened. 
His  lips  were  still  pressing  hers.  But  she  did 
not  seem  in  the  least  surprised,  and  most  cer- 
tainly not  angry.  Raising  herself  to  a  sitting 
posture,  she  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand  that 
he  might  help  her  up.  And,  alone  in  that  vast 
temple,  star-roofed  and  moon-illumined,  beside 
that  grim  grey  altar  of  forgotten  rites,  hand  in 
hand  they  stood  and  looked  at  one  another. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Commander  Raf- 
fleton.    "I'm  afraid  I  have  disturbed  you." 

He  remembered  afterwards  that  in  his  con- 
fusion he  had  spoken  to  her  in  English.  But 
she  answered  him  in  French,  a  quaint,  old- 
fashioned  French  such  as  one  rarely  finds  but 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  73 

in  the  pages  of  old  missals.  He  would  have  had 
some  difficulty  in  translating  it  literally,  but  the 
meaning  of  it  was,  adapted  to  our  modern 
idiom : 

' ' Don't  mention  it.  I'm  so  glad  you've 
come.  ■ ' 

He  gathered  she  had  been  expecting  him.  He 
was  not  quite  sure  whether  he  ought  not  to 
apologise  for  being  apparently  a  little  late. 
True,  he  had  no  recollection  of  any  such 
appointment.  But  then  at  that  particular 
moment  Commander  Raffleton  may  be  said  to 
have  had  no  consciousness  of  anything  beyond 
just  himself  and  the  wondrous  other  beside 
him.  Somewhere  outside  was  moonlight  and  a 
world ;  but  all  that  seemed  unimportant.  It  was 
she  who  broke  the  silence. 

' '  How  did  you  get  here  f ' '  she  asked. 

He  did  not  mean  to  be  enigmatical.  He  was 
chiefly  concerned  with  still  gazing  at  her. 

' '  I  flew  here, ' '  he  answered.  Her  eyes  opened 
wider  at  that,  but  with  interest,  no  doubt. 

" Where  are  your  wings?"  she  asked.  She 
was  leaning  sideways,  trying  to  get  a  view  of 
his  back. 


74  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

He  laughed.  It  made  her  seem  more  human, 
that  curiosity  about  his  back. 

"Over  there,"  he  answered.  She  looked,  and 
for  the  first  time  saw  the  great  shimmering  sails 
gleaming  like  silver  under  the  moonlight. 

She  moved  towards  it,  and  he  followed,  no- 
ticing without  surprise  that  the  heather  seemed 
to  make  no  sign  of  yielding  to  the  pressure  of 
her  white  feet. 

She  halted  a  little  away  from  it,  and  he  came 
and  stood  beside  her.  Even  to  Commander 
Raffleton  himself  it  looked  as  if  the  great  wings 
were  quivering,  like  the  outstretched  pinions  of 
a  bird  preening  itself  before  flight. 

"Is  it  alive?"  she  asked. 

"Not  till  I  whisper  to  it,"  he  answered.  He 
was  losing  a  little  of  his  fear  of  her.  She 
turned  to  him. 

6 '  Shall  we  go  1 "  she  asked. 

He  stared  at  her.  She  was  quite  serious,  that 
was  evident.  She  was  to  put  her  hand  in  his 
and  go  away  with  him.  It  was  all  settled.  That 
is  why  he  had  come.  To  her  it  did  not  matter 
where.     That  was  his  affair.     But  where  he 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  75 

went  she  was  to  go.    That  was  quite  clearly  the 
programme  in  her  mind. 

To  his  credit,  let  it  be  recorded,  he  did  make 
an  effort.  Against  all  the  forces  of  nature, 
against  his  twenty-three  years  and  the  red 
blood  pulsing  in  his  veins,  against  the  fumes  of 
the  midsummer  moonlight  encompassing  him 
and  the  voices  of  the  stars,  against  the  demons 
of  poetry  and  romance  and  mystery  chanting 
their  witches'  music  in  his  ears,  against  the 
marvel  and  the  glory  of  her  as  she  stood  beside 
him,  clothed  in  the  purple  of  the  night,  Flight 
Commander  Eaffleton  fought  the  good  fight  for 
common  sense. 

Young  persons  who,  scantily  clad,  got  to  sleep 
on  the  heather,  five  miles  from  the  nearest  hu- 
man habitation,  are  to  be  avoided  by  well- 
brought-up  young  officers  of  His  Majesty's 
Aerial  Service.  The  incidence  of  their  being 
uncannily  beautiful  and  alluring  should  serve 
as  an  additional  note  of  warning.  The  girl  had 
had  a  row  with  her  mother  and  wanted  to  get 
away.  It  was  this  infernal  moonlight  that  was 
chiefly  responsible.    No  wonder  dogs  bayed  at 


76  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

it.  He  almost  fancied  he  could  hear  one  now. 
Nice,  respectable,  wholesome-minded  things, 
dogs.  No  damned  sentiment  about  them.  What 
if  he  had  kissed  her !  One  is  not  bound  for  life 
to  every  woman  one  kisses.  Not  the  first  time 
she  had  been  kissed,  unless  all  the  young  men 
in  Brittany  were  blind  or  white  blooded.  All 
this  pretended  innocence  and  simplicity !  It  was 
just  put  on.  If  not,  she  must  be  a  lunatic.  The 
proper  thing  to  do  was  to  say  good-bye  with  a 
laugh  and  a  jest,  start  up  his  machine  and  be  off 
to  England — dear  old  practical,  merry  England, 
where  he  could  get  breakfast  and  a  bath. 

It  wasn't  a  fair  fight;  one  feels  it.  Poor  lit- 
tle prim  Common  Sense,  with  her  defiant, 
turned-up  nose  and  her  shrill  giggle  and  her 
innate  vulgarity.  And  against  her  the  stillness 
of  the  night,  and  the  music  of  the  ages,  and  the 
beating  of  his  heart. 

So  it  all  fell  down  about  his  feet,  a  little  crum- 
bled dust  that  a  passing  breath  of  wind  seemed 
to  scatter,  leaving  him  helpless,  spellbound  by 
the  magic  of  her  eyes. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked  her. 

"Malvina,"  she  answered  him.  "I  am  a 
fairy. ' 9 


Ill 

HOW  COUSIN  CHRISTOPHER  BECAME 
MIXED  UP  WITH  IT 

IT  did  just  occur  to  him  that  maybe  he  had 
not  made  that  descent  quite  as  successfully 
as  he  had  thought  he  had;  that  maybe  he  had 
come  down  on  his  head ;  that  in  consequence  he 
had  done  with  the  experiences  of  Flight  Com- 
mander Raffleton  and  was  now  about  to  enter 
on  a  new  and  less  circumscribed  existence.  If 
so,  the  beginning,  to  an  adventuresome  young 
spirit,  seemed  promising.  It  was  Malvina's 
voice  that  recalled  him  from  this  train  of 
musing. 

" Shall  we  go?"  she  repeated,  and  this  time 
the  note  in  her  voice  suggested  command  rather 
than  question. 

Why  not?  Whatever  had  happened  to  him, 
at  whatever  plane  of  existence  he  was  now 
arrived,  the  machine  apparently  had  followed 

77 


78  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

him.  Mechanically  he  started  it  up.  The 
familiar  whir  of  the  engine  brought  back  to  him 
the  possibility  of  his  being  alive  in  the  ordinary 
acceptation  of  the  term.  It  also  suggested  to 
him  the  practical  advisability  of  insisting  that 
Malvina  should  put  on  his  spare  coat.  Malvina 
being  five  feet  three,  and  the  coat  having  been 
built  for  a  man  of  six  feet  one,  the  effect  under 
ordinary  circumstances  would  have  been  comic. 
What  finally  convinced  Commander  Raffleton 
that  Malvina  really  was  a  fairy  was  that,  in 
that  coat,  with  the  collar  standing  up  some  six 
inches  above  her  head,  she  looked  more  like  one 
than  ever. 

Neither  of  them  spoke.  Somehow  it  did  not 
seem  to  be  needed.  He  helped  her  to  climb  into 
her  seat  and  tucked  the  coat  about  her  feet. 
She  answered  by  the  same  smile  with  which  she 
had  first  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him.  It  was 
just  a  smile  of  endless  content,  as  if  all  her 
troubles  were  now  over.  Commander  Raffleton 
sincerely  hoped  they  were.  A  momentary  flash 
of  intelligence  suggested  to  him  that  his  were 
just  beginning. 

Commander  Raffleton's  subconscious  self  it 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  79 

must  have  been  that  took  charge  of  the  machine. 
He  seems,  keeping  a  few  miles  inland,  to  have 
followed  the  line  of  the  coast  to  a  little  south 
of  The  Hague  lighthouse.  Thereabouts  he 
remembers  descending  for  the  purpose  of 
replenishing  his  tank.  Not  having  anticipated 
a  passenger,  he  had  filled  up  before  starting 
with  a  spare  supply  of  petrol,  an  incident  that 
was  fortunate.  Malvina  appears  to  have  been 
interested  in  watching  what  she  probably 
regarded  as  some  novel  breed  of  dragon  being 
nourished  from  tins  extricated  from  under  her 
feet,  but  to  have  accepted  this,  together  with  all 
other  details  of  the  flight,  as  in  the  natural 
scheme  of  things.  The  monster  refreshed, 
tugged,  spurned  the  ground,  and  rose  again 
with  a  roar ;  and  the  creeping  sea  rushed  down. 
One  has  the  notion  that  for  Flight  Com- 
mander Raffleton,  as  for  the  rest  of  us,  there 
lies  in  wait  to  test  the  heart  of  him  the  ugly  and 
the  commonplace.  So  large  a  portion  of  the 
years  will  be  for  him  a  business  of  mean  hopes 
and  fears,  of  sordid  struggle,  of  low  cares  and 
vulgar  fret.  But  also  one  has  the  conviction 
that  there  will  always  remain  with  him,  to  make 


80  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

life  wonderful,  the  memory  of  that  night  when, 
godlike,  he  rode  upon  the  winds  of  heaven 
crowned  with  the  glory  of  the  world's  desire. 
Now  and  again  he  turned  his  head  to  look  at 
her,  and  still,  as  ever,  her  eyes  answered  him 
with  that  strange  deep  content  that  seemed  to 
wrap  them  both  around  as  with  a  garment  of 
immortality.  One  gathers  dimly  something  of 
what  he  felt  from  the  look  that  would  uncon- 
sciously come  into  his  eyes  when  speaking  of 
that  enchanted  journey,  from  the  sudden  dumb- 
ness with  which  the  commonplace  words  would 
die  away  upon  his  lips.  Well  for  him  that  his 
lesser  self  kept  firm  hold  upon  the  wheel,  or 
maybe  a  few  broken  spare,  tossing  upon  the 
waves,  would  have  been  all  that  was  left  to  tell 
of  a  promising  young  aviator  who,  on  a  summer 
night  of  June,  had  thought  he  could  reach  the 
stars. 

Halfway  across  the  dawn  came  flaming  up 
over  the  Needles,  and  later  there  stole  from 
east  to  west  a  long,  low  line  of  mist-enshrouded 
land.  One  by  one  headland  and  cliff,  flashing 
with  gold,  rose  out  of  the  sea,  and  the  white- 
winged  gulls  flew  out  to  meet  them.    Almost  he 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  81 

expected   them  to   turn   into   spirits,   circling 
round  Malvina  with  cries  of  welcome. 

Nearer  and  nearer  they  drew,  while  gradu- 
ally the  mist  rose  upward  as  the  moonlight  grew 
fainter.  And  all  at  once  the  sweep  of  the  Chesil 
Bank  stood  out  before  them,  with  Weymouth 
sheltering  behind  it. 

It  may  have  been  the  bathing-machines  or 
the  gasometer  beyond  the  railway  station,  or 
the  flag  above  the  Royal  Hotel.  The  curtains  of 
the  night  fell  suddenly  away  from  him.  The 
workaday  world  came  knocking  at  the   door. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  a  little  after 
four.  He  had  wired  them  at  the  camp  to  expect 
him  in  the  morning.  They  would  be  looking  out 
for  him.  By  continuing  his  course  he  and  Mal- 
vina could  be  there  about  breakfast-time.  He 
could  introduce  her  to  the  colonel:  " Allow  me, 
Colonel  Goodyer,  the  fairy  Malvina."  It  was 
either  that  or  dropping  Malvina  somewhere 
between  Weymouth  and  Farnborough.  He 
decided,  without  much  consideration,  that  this 
latter  course  would  be  preferable.  But  where! 
What  was  he  to  do  with  her?    There  was  Aunt 


82  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

Emily.  Hadn't  she  said  something  about  want- 
ing a  French  governess  for  Georgina?  True, 
Malvina 's  French  was  a  trifle  old-fashioned  in 
form,  but  her  accent  was  charming.    And  as  for 

salary There  presented  itself  the  thought 

of  Uncle  Felix  and  the  three  elder  boys.  Instinc- 
tively he  felt  that  Malvina  would  not  be  Aunt 
Emily's  idea.  His  father,  had  the  dear  old  gen- 
tleman been  live,  would  have  been  a  safe  refuge. 
They  had  always  understood  one  another,  he 
and  his  father.  But  his  mother!  He  was  not 
at  all  sure.  He  visualised  the  scene :  The  draw- 
ing-room at  Chester  Terrace.  His  mother's 
soft,  rustling  entrance.  Her  affectionate  but 
well-bred  greeting.  And  then  the  disconcerting 
silence  with  which  she  would  await  his  explana- 
tion of  Malvina,  The  fact  that  she  was  a  fairy 
he  would  probably  omit  to  mention.  Faced  by 
his  mother's  gold-rimmed  pince-nez,  he  did  not 
see  himself  insisting  upon  that  detail:  "A 
young  lady  I  happened  to  find  asleep  on  a  moor 
in  Brittany.  And  seeing  it  was  a  fine  night, 
and  there  being  just  room  in  the  machine.  And 
she — I  mean  I — well,  here  we  are."  There 
would  follow  such  a  painful  silence,  and  then 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  83 

the  raising  of  the  delicately  arched  eyebrows: 
"  You  mean,  my  dear  lad,  that  you  have  allowed 
this ' ' — there  would  be  a  slight  hesitation  here — 
"this  young  person  to  leave  her  home,  her  peo- 
ple, her  friends  and  relations  in  Brittany,  in 
order  to  attach  herself  to  you.  May  I  ask  in 
what  capacity ?" 

For  that  was  precisely  how  it  would  look,  and 
not  only  to  his  mother.  Suppose  by  a  miracle 
it  really  represented  the  facts.  Suppose  that, 
in  spite  of  the  overwhelming  evidence  in  her 
favour— of  the  night  and  the  moon  and  the 
stars,  and  the  feeling  that  had  come  to  him  from 
the  moment  he  had  kissed  her — suppose  that,  in 
spite  of  all  this,  it  turned  out  that  she  wasn't 
a  fairy.  Suppose  that  suggestion  of  vulgar 
Common  Sense,  that  she  was  just  a  little  minx 
that  had  run  away  from  home,  had  really  hit 
the  mark.  Suppose  inquiries  were  already  on 
foot.  A  hundred  horse-power  aeroplane  does 
not  go  about  unnoticed.  Wasn't  there  a  law 
about  this  sort  of  thing — something  about 
"decoying"  and  "young  girls"?  He  hadn't 
"decoyed"  her.  If  anything,  it  was  the  other 
way  about.    But  would  her  consent  be  a  valid 


84  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

defence?  How  old  was  she?  That  would  be  the 
question.  In  reality  he  supposed  about  a  thou- 
sand years  or  so.  Possibly  more.  Unfortu- 
nately, she  didn't  look  it.  A  coldly  suspicious 
magistrate  would  probably  consider  sixteen  a 
much  better  guess.  Quite  possibly  he  was  going 
to  get  into  a  devil  of  a  mess  over  this  business. 
He  cast  a  glance  behind  him.  Malvina  re- 
sponded with  her  changeless  smile  of  ineffable 
content.  For  the  first  time  it  caused  him  a  dis- 
tinct feeling  of  irritation. 

They  were  almost  over  Weymouth  by  this 
time.  He  could  read  plainly  the  advertisement 
posters  outside  the  cinema  theatre  facing  the 
esplanade:  "Wilkins  and  the  Mermaid.  Comic 
Drama.' '  There  was  a  picture  of  the  lady 
combing  her  hair;  also  of  Wilkins,  a  stoutish 
gentleman  in  striped  bathing  costume. 

That  mad  impulse  that  had  come  to  him  with 
the  first  breath  of  dawn,  to  shake  the  dwindling 
world  from  his  pinions,  to  plunge  upward 
towards  the  stars  never  to  return — he  wished 
to  Heaven  he  had  yielded  to  it. 

And  then  suddenly  there  leaped  to  him  the 
thought  of  Cousin  Christopher. 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  85 

Dear  old  Cousin  Christopher,  fifty-eight  and 
a  bachelor.  Why  had  it  not  occurred  to  him 
before  f  Out  of  the  sky  there  appeared  to  Com- 
mander Raffleton  the  vision  of  "Cousin  Chris- 
topher" as  a  plump,  rubicund  angel  in  a  pan- 
ama  hat  and  a  pepper-and-salt  tweed  suit  hold- 
ing out  a  lifebelt.  Cousin  Christopher  would 
take  to  Malvina  as  some  motherly  hen  to  an 
orphaned  duckling.  A  fairy  discovered  asleep 
beside  one  of  the  ancient  menhirs  of  Brittany. 
His  only  fear  would  be  that  you  might  want  to 
take  her  away  before  he  had  written  a  paper 
about  her.  He  would  be  down  from  Oxford  at 
his  cottage.  Commander  Raffleton  could  not 
for  the  moment  remember  the  name  of  the  vil- 
lage. It  would  come  to  him.  It  was  northwest 
of  Newbury.  You  crossed  Salisbury  Plain  and 
made  straight  for  Magdalen  Tower.  The  Downs 
reached  almost  to  the  orchard  gate.  There 
was  a  level  stretch  of  sward  nearly  half  a  mile 
long.  It  seemed  to  Commander  Raffleton  that 
Cousin  Christopher  had  been  created  and  care- 
fully preserved  by  Providence  for  this  particu- 
lar job. 

He  was  no  longer  the  moonstruck  youth  of 


86  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

the  previous  night,  on  whom  phantasy  and 
imagination  could  play  what  pranks  they  chose. 
That  part  of  him  the  keen,  fresh  morning  air- 
had  driven  back  into  its  cell.  He  was  Com- 
mander Raffleton,  an  eager  and  alert  young 
engineer  with  all  his  wits  about  him.  At  this 
point  that  has  to  be  remembered.  Descending 
on  a  lonely  reach  of  shore  he  proceeded  again  to 
disturb  Malvina  for  the  purpose  of  extracting 
tins.  He  expected  his  passenger  would  in  broad 
daylight  prove  to  be  a  pretty,  childish-looking 
girl,  somewhat  dishevelled,  with,  maybe,  a  tinge 
of  blue  about  the  nose,  the  natural  result  of  a 
three-hours '  flight  at  fifty  miles  an  hour.  It 
was  with  a  startling  return  of  his  original  sen- 
sations when  first  she  had  come  to  life  beneath 
his  kiss  that  he  halted  a  few  feet  away  and 
stared  at  her.  The  night  was  gone,  and  the 
silence.  She  stood  there  facing  the  sunlight, 
clad  in  a  burberry  overcoat  half  a  dozen  sizes 
too  large  for  her.  Beyond  her  was  a  row  of 
bathing-machines,  and  beyond  that  again  a 
gasometer.  A  goods  train  half  a  mile  away 
was  noisily  shunting  trucks. 

And  yet  the  glamour  was  about  her  still; 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  87 


something  indescribable  but  quite  palpabh 
something  out  of  which  she  looked  at  you  as 
from  another  world. 

He  took  her  proffered  hand,  and  she  leaped 
out  lightly.  She  was  not  in  the  least  dishevelled. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  air  must  be  her  proper  ele- 
ment. She  looked  about  her,  interested,  but  not 
curious.    Her  first  thought  was  for  the  machine. 

"Poor  thing!"  she  said.  "He  must  be 
tired." 

That  faint  tremor  of  fear  that  had  come  to 
him  when  beneath  the  menhir's  shadow  he  had 
watched  the  opening  of  her  eyes,  returned  to 
him.  It  was  not  an  unpleasant  sensation. 
Rather  it  added  a  piquancy  to  their  relation- 
ship. But  it  was  distinctly  real.  She  watched 
the  feeding  of  the  monster;  and  then  he  came 
again  and  stood  beside  her  on  the  yellow 
sands. 

"England !"  he  explained  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand.  One  fancies  she  had  the  impression  that 
it  belonged  to  him.  Graciously  she  repeated  the 
name.  And  somehow,  as  it  fell  from  her  lips, 
it  conjured  up  to  Commander  Raffleton  a  land 
of  wonder  and  romance. 


88  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

"I  have  heard  of  it,"  she  added.  "I  think  I 
shall  like  it." 

He  answered  that  he  hoped  she  would.  He 
was  deadly  serious  about  it.  He  possessed, 
generally  speaking,  a  sense  of  humour ;  but  for 
the  moment  this  must  have  deserted  him.  He 
told  her  he  was  going  to  leave  her  in  the  care 
of  a  wise  and  learned  man  called  "Cousin 
Christopher";  his  description  no  doubt  sug- 
gesting to  Malvina  a  friendly  magician.  He 
himself  would  have  to  go  away  for  a  little  while, 
but  would  return. 

It  did  not  seem  to  matter  to  Malvina,  these 
minor  details.  It  was  evident — the  idea  in  her 
mind — that  he  had  been  appointed  to  her. 
Whether  as  master  or  servant  it  was  less  easy 
to  conjecture :  probably  a  mixture  of  both,  with 
preference  towards  the  latter. 

He  mentioned  again  that  he  would  not  be 
away  for  longer  than  he  could  help.  There  was 
no  necessity  for  this  repetition.  She  wasn't 
doubting  it. 

Weymouth  with  its  bathing  machines  and  its 
gasometer  faded  away.  King  Rufus  was  out 
a-hunting  as  they  passed  over  the  New  Forest, 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  89 

and  from  Salisbury  Plain,  as  they  looked  down, 
the  pixies  waved  their  hands  and  laughed. 
Later,  they  heard  the  clang  of  the  anvil,  telling 
them  they  were  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Way- 
land  Smith's  cave;  and  so  planed  down  sweetly 
and  without  a  jar  just  beyond  Cousin  Christo- 
pher's orchard  gate. 

A  shepherd's  boy  was  whistling  somewhere 
upon  the  Downs,  and  in  the  valley  a  ploughman 
had  just  harnessed  his  team ;  but  the  village  was 
hidden  from  them  by  the  sweep  of  the  hills,  and 
no  other  being  was  in  sight.  He  helped  Mal- 
vina  out,  and  leaving  her  seated  on  a  fallen 
branch  beneath  a  walnut  tree,  proceeded  cau- 
tiously towards  the  house.  He  found  a  little 
maid  in  the  garden.  She  had  run  out  of  the 
house  on  hearing  the  sound  of  his  propeller  and 
was  staring  up  into  the  sky,  so  that  she  never 
saw  him  until  he  put  his  hand  upon  her  shoul- 
der, and  then  was  fortunately  too  frightened  to 
scream.  He  gave  her  hasty  instructions.  She 
was  to  knock  at  the  Professor's  door  and  tell 
him  that  his  cousin,  Commander  Raffleton,  was 
there,  and  would  he  come  down  at  once,  by  him- 
self, into  the  orchard.     Commander  Raffleton 


90  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

would  rather  not  come  in.  Would  the  Professor 
come  down  at  once  and  speak  to  Commander 
Raffleton  in  the  orchard. 

She  went  back  into  the  house,  repeating  it  all 
to  herself,  a  little  scared. 

"Good  God!"  said  Cousin  Christopher  from 
beneath  the  bedclothes.    ' '  He  isn  't  hurt,  is  he  ? " 

The  little  maid,  through  the  jar  of  the  door, 
thought  not.  Anyhow,  he  didn't  look  it.  But 
would  the  Professor  kindly  come  at  once? 
Commander  Raffleton  was  waiting  for  him — in 
the  orchard. 

So  Cousin  Christopher,  in  bedroom  slippers, 
without  socks,  wearing  a  mustard-coloured 
dressing-gown  and  a  black  skull  cap  upon  his 
head — the  very  picture  of  a  friendly  magician 
— trotted  hastily  downstairs  and  through  the 
garden,  talking  to  himself  about  "foolhardy 
boys' '  and  "knowing  it  would  happen";  and 
was  much  relieved  to  meet  young  Arthur  Raf- 
fleton coming  towards  him,  evidently  sound  in 
wind  and  limb.  And  then  began  to  wonder  why 
the  devil  he  had  been  frightened  out  of  bed  at 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning  if  nothing  was  the 
matter. 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  91 

But  something  clearly  was.  Before  speaking 
Arthur  Raffleton  looked  carefully  about  him  in 
a  manner  suggestive  of  mystery,  if  not  of  crime ; 
and  still  without  a  word,  taking  Cousin  Chris- 
topher by  the  arm,  led  the  way  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  orchard.  And  there,  on  a  fallen 
branch  beneath  the  walnut  tree,  Cousin  Chris- 
topher saw  apparently  a  khaki  coat,  with  noth- 
ing in  it,  which  as  they  approached  it,  rose  up. 

But  it  did  not  rise  very  high.  The  back  of  the 
coat  was  towards  them.  Its  collar  stood  out 
against  the  sky  line.  But  there  wasn't  any  head. 
Standing  upright,  it  turned  round,  and  peeping 
out  of  its  folds  Cousin  Christopher  saw  a  child's 
face.  And  then  looking  closer  saw  that  it  wasn't 
a  child.  And  then  wasn't  quite  sure  what  it 
was ;  so  that  coming  to  a  sudden  halt  in  front 
of  it,  Cousin  Christopher  stared  at  it  with  round 
wide  eyes,  and  then  at  Flight  Commander  Raf- 
fleton. 

It  was  to  Malvina  that  Flight  Commander 
Raffleton  addressed  himself. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  Professor  Littlecherry, 
my  Cousin  Christopher,  about  whom  I  told 
you. ' ' 


92  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

It  was  obvious  that  Malvina  regarded  the 
Professor  as  a  person  of  importance.  Evi- 
dently her  intention  was  to  courtesy,  an  opera- 
tion that,  hampered  by  those  trailing  yards  of 
clinging  khaki,  might  prove — so  it  flashed  upon 
the  Professor — not  only  difficult  but  dangerous. 

' 'Allow  me,"  said  the  Professor. 

His  idea  was  to  help  Malvina  out  of  Com- 
mander Raffleton 's  coat,  and  Malvina  was  pre- 
paring to  assist  him.  Commander  Raffleton  was 
only  just  in  time. 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Commander  Raffleton. 
"If  you  don't  mind  I  think  we'd  better  leave 
that  for  Mrs.  Muldoon." 

The  Professor  let  go  the  coat.  Malvina 
appeared  a  shade  disappointed.  One  opines 
that  not  unreasonably  she  may  have  thought  to 
make  a  better  impression  without  it.  But  a 
smiling  acquiescence  in  all  arrangements  made 
for  her  welfare  seems  to  have  been  one  of  her 
charms. 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Commander  Raffleton 
to  Malvina  while  ref astening  a  few  of  the  more 
important  buttons,  "if  you  wouldn't  mind 
explaining   yourself    to    my    Cousin    Christo- 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY       -     93 

pher  just  exactly  who  and  what  you  are — 
you'd  do  it  so  much  better  than  I  should.' ' 
(What  Commander  Raffleton  was  saying  to  him- 
self was:  "If  I  tell  the  dear  old  Johnny,  he'll 
think  I'm  pulling  his  leg.  It  will  sound  alto- 
gether different  the  way  she  will  put  it.") 
"You're  sure  you  don't  mind!" 

Malvina  hadn't  the  slightest  objection.  She 
accomplished  her  courtesy — or  rather  it  looked 
as  if  the  coat  were  courtesying — quite  grace- 
fully, and  with  a  dignity  one  would  not  have 
expected  from  it. 

"I  am  the  fairy  Malvina,"  she  explained  to 
the  Professor.  "You  may  have  heard  of  me. 
I  was  the  favourite  of  Harbundia,  Queen  of  the 
White  Ladies  of  Brittany.  But  that  was  long 
ago." 

The  friendly  magician  was  staring  at  her 
with  a  pair  of  round  eyes  that  in  spite  of  their 
amazement  looked  kindly  and  understanding. 
They  probably  encouraged  Malvina  to  com- 
plete the  confession  of  her  sad  brief  history. 

"It  was  when  King  Heremon  ruled  over  Ire- 
land," she  continued.  "I  did  a  very  foolish 
and  a  wicked  thing,  and  was  punished  for  it  by 


94  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

being  cast  out  from  the  companionship  of  my 
fellows.  Since  then" — the  coat  made  the  slight- 
est of  pathetic  gestures — "I  have  wandered 
alone. ' ' 

It  ought  to  have  sounded  so  ridiculous  to 
them  both ;  told  on  English  soil  in  the  year  One 
Thousand  Nine  Hundred  and  Fourteen  to  a 
smart  young  officer  of  Engineers  and  an  elderly 
Oxford  Professor.  Across  the  road  the  Doctor's 
odd  man  was  opening  garage  doors;  a  noisy 
milk  cart  was  clattering  through  the  village  a 
little  late  for  the  London  train;  a  faint  odour 
of  eggs  and  bacon  came  wafted  through  the  gar- 
den, mingled  with  the  scent  of  lavender  and 
pinks.  For  Commander  Raffleton,  maybe,  there 
was  excuse.  This  story,  so  far  as  it  has  gone, 
has  tried  to  make  that  clear.  But  the  Pro- 
fessor! He  ought  to  have  exploded  in  a 
burst  of  Homeric  laughter,  or  else  to  have 
shaken  his  head  at  her  and  warned  her 
where  little  girls  go  to  who  do  this  sort  of 
thing. 

Instead  of  which  he  stared  from  Commander 
Raffleton  to  Malvina,  and  from  Malvina  back  to 
Commander    Raffleton    with    eyes    so    aston- 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  95 

ishingly  round  that  they  might  have  been  drawn 
with  a  compass. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  said  the  Professor. 
"But  this  is  most  extraordinary !" 

"Was  there  a  King  Heremon  of  Ireland?" 
asked  Commander  Raffleton.  The  Professor 
was  a  well-known  authority  on  these  matters. 

"Of  course  there  was  a  King  Heremon  of 
Ireland,"  answered  the  Professor  quite  petu- 
lantly— as  if  the  Commander  had  wanted  to 
know  if  there  had  ever  been  a  Julius  Caesar  or 
a  Napoleon.  "And  so  there  was  a  Queen  Har- 
bundia.  Malvina  is  always  spoken  of  in  con- 
nection with  her. ' ' 

"What  did  she  do?"  inquired  Commander 
Raffleton.  They  both  of  them  seemed  to  be 
oblivious  of  Malvina's  presence. 

"I  forget  for  the  moment,"  confessed  the 
Professor.  "I  must  look  it  up.  Something,  if 
I  remember  rightly,  in  connection  with  the 
daughter  of  King  Dancrat.  He  founded  the 
Norman  dynasty.  William  the  Conqueror  and 
all  that  lot.    Good  Lord!" 

"Would  you  mind  her  staying  with  you  for  a 
time  until  I   can  make   arrangements,"   sug- 


96  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

gested  Commander  Raffleton.  "I'd  be  awfully 
obliged  if  you  would. ' ' 

What  the  Professor's  answer  might  have 
been  had  he  been  allowed  to  exercise  such  stock 
of  wits  as  he  possessed,  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
Of  course  he  was  interested — excited  if  you  will. 
Folklore,  legend,  tradition ;  it  had  been  his  life- 
long hobby.  Apart  from  anything  else,  here  at 
least  was  a  kindred  spirit.  Seemed  to  know  a 
thing  or  two.  Where  had  she  learned  it!  Might 
not  there  be  sources  unknown  to  the  Professor? 

But  to  take  her  in!  To  establish  her  in  the 
only  spare  bedroom.  To  introduce  her — as 
what!  to  English  village  society.  To  the  new 
people  at  the  Manor  House.  To  the  member  of 
Parliament  with  his  innocent  young  wife  who 
had  taken  the  vicarage  for  the  summer.  To 
Dawson,  R.A.,  and  the  Calthorpes ! 

He  might,  had  he  thought  it  worth  his  while, 
have  found  some  respectable  French  family 
and  boarded  her  out.  There  was  a  man  he  had 
known  for  years  at  Oxford,  a  cabinetmaker ;  the 
wife  a  most  worthy  woman.  He  could  have 
gone  over  there  from  time  to  time,  his  notebook 
in  his  pocket,  and  have  interviewed  her. 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  97 

Left  to  himself,  he  might  have  behaved  as  a 
sane  and  rational  citizen;  or  he  might  not. 
There  are  records  favouring  the  latter  possibil- 
ity. The  thing  is  not  certain.  But  as  regards 
this  particular  incident  in  his  career  he  must  be 
held  exonerated.  The  decision  was  taken  out 
of  his  hands. 

To  Malvina,  on  first  landing  in  England, 
Commander  Raffleton  had  stated  his  intention 
of  leaving  her  temporarily  in  the  care  of  the 
wise  and  learned  Christopher.  To  Malvina, 
regarding  the  Commander  as  a  gift  from  the 
gods,  that  had  settled  the  matter.  The  wise  and 
learned  Christopher,  of  course,  knew  of  this 
coming.  In  all  probability  it  was  he — under  the 
guidance  of  the  gods — who  had  arranged  the 
whole  sequence  of  events.  There  remained  only 
to  tender  him  her  gratitude.  She  did  not 
wait  for  the  Professor's  reply.  The  coat  a 
little  hindered  her,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
added  perhaps  an  appealing  touch  of  its  own. 
Taking  the  wise  and  learned  Christopher's 
hand  in  both  her  own,  she  knelt  and 
kissed  it. 

And  in  that  quaint  archaic  French  of  hers, 


98  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

that  long  study  of  the  Chronicles  of  Froissart 
enabled  the  Professor  to  understand : 

"I  thank  you,"  she  said,  "for  your  noble 
courtesy  and  hospitality.' ' 

In  some  mysterious  way  the  whole  affair  had 
suddenly  become  imbued  with  the  dignity  of  an 
historical  event.  The  Professor  had  the  sud- 
den impression — and  indeed  it  never  altogether 
left  him  so  long  as  Malvina  remained — that  he 
was  a  great  and  powerful  personage.  A  sister 
potentate;  incidentally — though,  of  course  in 
high  politics  such  points  are  immaterial — the 
most  bewilderingly  beautiful  being  he  had  ever 
seen  had  graciously  consented  to  become  his 
guest.  The  Professor,  with  a  bow  that  might 
have  been  acquired  at  the  court  of  King  Rene, 
expressed  his  sense  of  the  honour  done  to  him. 
What  else  could  a  self-respecting  potentate  do? 
The  incident  was  closed. 

Flight  Commander  Rameton  seems  to  have 
done  nothing  in  the  direction  of  re-opening  it. 
On  the  contrary,  he  appears  to  have  used  this 
precise  moment  for  explaining  to  the  Professor 
how  absolutely  necessary  it  was  that  he  should 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  99 

depart  for  Farnborough  without  another  mo- 
ment's loss  of  time.  Commander  Rameton 
added  that  he  would  "look  them  both  up  again' ' 
the  first  afternoon  he  could  get  away ;  and  was 
sure  that  if  the  Professor  would  get  Malvina  to 
speak  slowly,  he  would  soon  find  her  French 
easy  to  understand. 

It  did  occur  to  the  Professor  to  ask  Com- 
mander Rameton  where  he  had  found  Malvina 
— that  is,  if  he  remembered.  Also  what  he  was 
going  to  do  about  her — that  is,  if  he  happened 
to  know.  Commander  Rameton,  regretting  his 
great  need  of  haste,  explained  that  he  had  found 
Malvina  asleep  beside  a  menhir  not  far  from 
Huelgoat,  in  Brittany,  and  was  afraid  that  he 
had  woke  her  up.  For  further  particulars, 
would  the  Professor  kindly  apply  to  Malvina! 
For  himself,  he  would  never,  he  felt  sure,  be 
able  to  thank  the  Professor  sufficiently. 

In  conclusion,  and  without  giving  further 
opportunity  for  discussion,  the  Commander 
seems  to  have  shaken  his  Cousin  Christopher 
by  the  hand  with  much  enthusiasm;  and  then 
to  have  turned  to  Malvina.  She  did  not  move, 
but  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him.    And  he  came 


100  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

to  her  slowly.    And  without  a  word  he  kissed 
her  full  upon  the  lips. 

"That  is  twice  you  have  kissed  me,"  said 
Malvina — and  a  curious  little  smile  played 
round  her  mouth.  "The  third  time  I  shall 
become  a  woman. ' 9 


IV 

HOW  IT  WAS  KEPT  FROM 
MRS.  ARLINGTON 

WHAT  surprised  the  Professor  himself, 
when  he  came  to  think  of  it,  was  that, 
left  alone  with  Malvina,  and  in  spite  of  all  the 
circumstances,  he  felt  neither  embarrassment 
nor  perplexity.  It  was  as  if,  so  far  as  they  two 
were  concerned,  the  whole  thing  was  quite  sim- 
ple— almost  humourous.  It  would  be  the  other 
people  who  would  have  to  worry. 

The  little  serving  maid  was  hovering  about 
the  garden.  She  was  evidently  curious  and  try- 
ing to  get  a  peep.  Mrs.  Muldoon's  voice  could 
be  heard  calling  to  her  from  the  kitchen.  There 
was  this  question  of  clothes. 

"You  haven't  brought  anything  with  you?" 
asked  the  Professor.  "I  mean,  in  the  way  of  a 
frock  of  any  sort." 

Malvina,  with  a  smile,  gave  a  little  gesture. 
101 


102  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

It  implied  that  all  there  was  of  her  and  hers 
stood  before  him. 

"We  shall  have  to  find  you  something,' '  said 
the  Professor.  "Something  in  which  you  can 
go  about " 

The  Professor  had  intended  to  say  "our 
world/ '  but  hesitated,  not  feeling  positive  at 
the  moment  to  which  he  himself  belonged — Mal- 
vina's  or  Mrs.  Muldoon's.  So  he  made  it  "the" 
world  instead.  Another  gesture  conveyed  to 
him  that  Malvina  was  entirely  in  his  hands. 

"What  really  have  you  got  on?"  asked  the 
Professor.  "I  mean  underneath.  Is  it  any- 
thing possible — for  a  clay  or  two!" 

Now  Commander  Eaffleton,  for  some  reason 
of  his  own  not  at  all  clear  to  Malvina,  had  for- 
bidden the  taking  off  of  the  coat.  But  had  said 
nothing  about  undoing  it.  So  by  way  of 
response  Malvina  undid  it. 

Upon  which  the  Professor,  to  Malvina's  sur- 
prise, acted  precisely  as  Commander  Raffleton 
had  done.  That  is  to  say,  he  hastily  re-closed 
the  coat,  returning  the  buttons  to  their  button- 
holes. 

The  fear  may  have  come  to  Malvina  that  she 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  103 

was  doomed  never  to  be  rid  of  Commander  Raf- 
fleton's  coat. 

"I  wonder,' '  mused  the  Professor,  "if  any- 
one in  the  village "    The  little  serving  maid 

flittering  among  the  gooseberry  bushes — she 
was  pretending  to  be  gathering  gooseberries — 
caught  the  Professor's  eye. 

"We  will  consult  my  chatelaine,  Mrs.  Mul- 
doon," suggested  the  Professor.  "I  think  we 
shall  be  able  to  manage. ' ' 

The  Professor  tendered  Malvina  his  arm. 
With  her  other  hand  she  gathered  up  the  skirts 
of  the  Commander's  coat. 

"I  think,"  said  the  Professor  with  a  sudden 
inspiration  as  they  passed  through  the  garden, 
"I  think  I  shall  explain  to  Mrs.  Muldoon  that 
you  have  just  come  straight  from  a  fancy-dress 
ball." 

They  found  Mrs.  Muldoon  in  the  kitchen.  A 
less  convincing  story  than  that  by  which  the 
Professor  sought  to  account  to  Mrs.  Muldoon 
for  the  how  and  the  why  of  Malvina  it  would  be 
impossible  to  imagine.  Mrs.  Muldoon  out  of 
sheer  kindness  appears  to  have  cut  him  short. 

"I'll  not  be  asking  ye  any  questions,"  said 


104  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

Mrs.  Muldoon,  "so  there'll  be  no  need  for  ye  to 
imperil  your  immortal  soul.  If  ye  '11  just  give  a 
thought  to  your  own  appearance  and  leave  the 
colleen  to  me  and  Drusilla,  we'll  make  her 
maybe  a  bit  dacent." 

The  reference  to  his  own  appearance  discon- 
certed the  Professor.  He  had  not  anticipated, 
when  hastening  into  his  dressing  gown  and  slip- 
pers and  not  bothering  about  his  socks,  that  he 
was  on  his  way  to  meet  the  chief  lady-in-waiting 
of  Queen  Harbundia.  Demanding  that  shaving 
water  should  be  immediately  sent  up  to  him,  he 
appears  to  have  retired  into  the  bathroom. 

It  was  while  he  was  shaving  that  Mrs.  Mul- 
doon, knocking  at  the  door,  demanded  to  speak 
to  him.  From  her  tone  the  Professor  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  house  was  on  fire.  He 
opened  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Muldoon,  seeing  he 
was  respectable,  slipped  in  and  closed  it  behind 
her. 

"Where  did  ye  find  her?  How  did  she  get 
here?"  demanded  Mrs.  Muldoon.  Never  before 
had  the  Professor  seen  Mrs.  Muldoon  other 
than  a  placid,  good-humoured  body.  She  was 
trembling  from  head  to  foot. 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  105 

"I  told  you,"  explained  the  Professor. 
' '  Young  Arthur ' ' 

"I'm  not  asking  ye  what  ye  told  me,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Muldoon.  'Tin  asking  ye  for  the 
truth,  if  ye  know  it. ' ' 

The  Professor  put  a  chair  for  Mrs.  Muldoon, 
and  Mrs.  Muldoon  dropped  down  upon  it. 

"What's  the  matter?"  questioned  the  Pro- 
fessor.   "What  happened?" 

Mrs.  Muldoon  glanced  round  her,  and  her 
voice  was  an  hysterical  whisper. 

"It's  no  mortal  woman  ye've  brought  into  the 
house,"  said  Mrs.  Muldoon.    "It's  a  fairy." 

Whether  up  to  that  moment  the  Professor 
had  really  believed  Malvina's  story,  or  whether 
lurking  at  the  back  of  his  mind  there  had  all 
along  been  an  innate  conviction  that  the  thing 
was  absurd,  the  Professor  himself  is  now  unable 
to  say.  To  the  front  of  the  Professor  lay 
Oxford— political  economy,  the  higher  criti- 
cism, the  rise  and  progress  of  rationalism. 
Behind  him,  fading  away  into  the  dim  horizon 
of  humanity,  lay  an  unmapped  land  where  for 
forty  years  he  had  loved  to  wander;  a  spirit- 
haunted  land  of  buried  mysteries,  lost  path- 


106  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

ways,  leading  unto  hidden  gates  of  knowledge. 

And  now  npon  the  trembling  balance  de- 
scended Mrs.  Mnldoon  plump. 

"How  do  you  know?"  demanded  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"Shure,  don't  I  know  the  mark?"  replied 
Mrs.  Muldoon  almost  contemptuously.  "Wasn't 
my  own  sister's  child  stolen  away  the  very  day 
of  its  birth  and  in  its  place " 

The  little  serving  maid  tapped  at  the  door. 

Mademoiselle  was  "finished."  What  was  to 
be  done  with  her? 

"Don't  ask  me,"  protested  Mrs.  Muldoon, 
still  in  a  terrified  whisper.  "I  couldn't  do  it. 
Not  if  all  the  saints  were  to  go  down  upon  their 
knees  and  pray  to  me. ' ' 

Common-sense  argument  would  not  have  pre- 
vailed with  Mrs.  Muldoon.  The  Professor  felt 
that;  added  to  which  he  had  not  any  handy. 
He  directed,  through  the  door,  that  "Mademoi- 
selle" should  be  shown  into  the  dining-room, 
and  listened  till  Drusilla's  footsteps  had  died 
away. 

1 '  Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  White  Ladies  ? ' ' 
whispered  the  Professor  to  Mrs.  Muldoon. 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  107 

There  was  not  much  in  the  fairy  line,  one 
takes  it,  that  Mrs.  Muldoon  had  not  heard  of 
and  believed.    Was  the  Professor  sure? 

The  Professor  gave  Mrs.  Muldoon  his  word 
of  honour  as  a  gentleman.  The  "  White 
Ladies,' '  as  Mrs.  Muldoon  was  of  course  aware, 
belonged  to  the  "good  people.' '  Provided 
nobody  offended  her  there  was  nothing  to  fear. 

"Shure,  it  won't  be  meself  that'll  cross  her," 
said  Mrs.  Muldoon. 

"She  won't  be  staying  very  long,"  added  the 
Professor.    "We  will  just  be  nice  to  her." 

1 '  She 's  got  a  kind  face, ' '  admitted  Mrs.  Mul- 
doon, "and  a  pleasant  way  with  her."  The 
good  body's  spirits  were  perceptibly  rising. 
The  favour  of  a  "White  Lady"  might  be  worth 
cultivating. 

"We  must  make  a  friend  of  her,"  urged  the 
Professor,  seizing  his  opportunity. 

"And  mind,"  whispered  the  Professor  as  he 
opened  the  door  for  Mrs.  Muldoon  to  slip  out, 
"not  a  word.    She  doesn't  want  it  known." 

One  is  convinced  that  Mrs.  Muldoon  left  the 
bathroom  resolved  that,  so  far  as  she  could  help 
it,  no  breath  of  suspicion  that  Malvina  was 


108  MALVINA  OF  BEITTANY 

other  than  what  in  Drusilla's  holiday  frock  she 
would  appear  to  be  should  escape  into  the  vil- 
lage. It  was  quite  a  pleasant  little  frock  of  a 
summery  character,  with  short  sleeves  and 
loose  about  the  neck,  and  fitted  Malvina,  in 
every  sense,  much  better  than  the  most  elab- 
orate confection  would  have  done.  The  boots 
were  not  so  successful.  Malvina  solved  the 
problem  by  leaving  them  behind  her,  together 
with  the  stockings,  whenever  she  went  out. 
That  she  knew  this  was  wrong  is  proved  by  the 
fact  that  invariably  she  tried  to  hide  them.  They 
would  be  found  in  the  most  unlikely  places; 
hidden  behind  books  in  the  Professor's  study, 
crammed  into  empty  tea  canisters  in  Mrs.  Mul- 
doon's  storeroom.  Mrs.  Muldoon  was  not  to  be 
persuaded  even  to  abstract  them.  The  canister 
with  its  contents  would  be  placed  in  silence 
upon  the  Professor's  table.  Malvina  on  return- 
ing would  be  confronted  by  a  pair  of  stern, 
unsympathetic  boots.  The  corners  of  the  fairy 
mouth  would  droop  in  lines  suggestive  of  peni- 
tence and  contrition. 

Had  the  Professor  been  firm  she  would  have 
yielded.    But  from  the  black  accusing  boots  the 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  109 

Professor  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  wander- 
ing to  the  guilty  white  feet,  and  at  once  in  his 
heart  becoming  "counsel  for  the  defence." 
Must  get  a  pair  of  sandals  next  time  he  went 
to  Oxford.  Anyhow,  something  more  dainty 
than  those  grim,  uncompromising  boots. 

Besides,  it  was  not  often  that  Malvina  ven- 
tured beyond  the  orchard.  At  least  not  during 
the  day  time — perhaps  one  ought  to  say  not 
during  that  part  of  the  day  time  when  the  vil- 
lage was  astir.  For  Malvina  appears  to  have 
been  an  early  riser.  Somewhere  about  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night,  as  any  Christian  body  would 
have  timed  it,  Mrs.  Muldoon — waking  and 
sleeping  during  this  period  in  a  state  of  high 
nervous  tension — would  hear  the  sound  of  a 
softly  opened  door ;  peeping  from  a  raised  cor- 
ner of  the  blind,  would  catch  a  glimpse  of  flut- 
tering garments  that  seemed  to  melt  into  the 
dawn;  would  hear  coming  fainter  and  fainter 
from  the  uplands  an  unknown  song,  mingling 
with  the  answering  voices  of  the  birds. 

It  was  on  the  uplands  between  dawn  and  sun- 
rise that  Malvina  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
Arlington  twins. 


110  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

They  ought,  of  course,  to  have  been  in  bed — 
all  three  of  them,  for  the  matter  of  that.  The 
excuse  for  the  twins  was  their  Uncle  George. 
He  had  been  telling  them  all  about  the  Uffing- 
ton  spectre  and  Wayland  Smith's  cave,  and  had 
given  them  "Puck"  as  a  birthday  present. 
They  were  always  given  their  birthday  pres- 
ents between  them,  because  otherwise  they  did 
not  care  for  them.  They  had  retired  to  their 
respective  bedrooms  at  ten  o'clock  and  taken  it 
in  turns  to  lie  awake.  At  the  first  streak  of 
dawn  Victoria,  who  had  been  watching  by  her 
window,  woke  Victor,  as  arranged.  Victor  was 
for  giving  it  up  and  going  to  sleep  again,  but 
Victoria  reminding  him  of  the  "oath,"  they 
dressed  themselves  quite  simply,  and  let  them- 
selves down  by  the  ivy. 

They  came  across  Malvina  close  to  the  tail  of 
the  White  Horse.  They  knew  she  was  a  fairy 
the  moment  they  saw  her.  But  they  were  not- 
frightened — at  least  not  very  much.  It  was 
Victor  who  spoke  first.  Taking  off  his  hat  and 
going  down  on  one  knee,  he  wished  Malvina 
good  morning  and  hoped  she  was  quite  well. 
Malvina,  who  seemed  pleased  to  see  them,  made 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  111 

answer,  and  here  it  was  that  Victoria  took 
charge  of  the  affair.  The  Arlington  twins  until 
they  were  nine  had  shared  a  French  nurse 
between  them;  and  then  Victor,  going  to  school, 
had  gradually  forgotten;  while  Victoria,  re- 
maining at  home,  had  continued  her  conversa- 
tions with  ' '  madame. ' ' 

"Oh!"  said  Victoria.  "Then  you  must  be 
a  French  fairy." 

Now  the  Professor  had  impressed  upon  Mal- 
vina  that  for  reasons  needless  to  be  explained — 
anyhow,  he  never  had  explained  them— she  was 
not  to  mention  that  she  was  a  fairy.  But  he 
had  not  told  her  to  deny  it.  Indeed  how  could 
she?  The  most  that  could  be  expected  from  her 
was  that  she  should  maintain  silence  on  the 
point.  So  in  answer  to  Victoria  she  explained 
that  her  name  was  Malvina,  and  that  she  had 
flown  across  from  Brittany  in  company  with 
"Sir  Arthur,"  adding  that  she  had  often  heard 
of  England  and  had  wished  to  see  it. 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  demanded  Victoria. 

Malvina  confessed  herself  charmed  with  it. 
Nowhere  had  she  ever  met  so  many  birds.  Mal- 
vina raised  her  hand  and  they  all  three  stood 


112  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

in  silence,  listening.  The  sky  was  ablaze  and 
the  air  seemed  filled  with  their  mnsic.  The 
twins  were  sure  that  there  were  millions  of 
them.  They  must  have  come  from  miles  and 
miles  and  miles,  to  sing  to  Malvina. 

Also  the  people.  They  were  so  good  and  kind 
and  round.  Malvina  for  the  present  was  stay- 
ing with — accepting  the  protection,  was  how 
she  put  it,  of  the  wise  and  learned  Christopher. 
The  "habitation"  could  be  seen  from  where 
they  stood,  its  chimneys  peeping  from  among 
the  trees.  The  twins  exchanged  a  meaning 
glance.  Had  they  not  all  along  suspected  the 
Professor!  His  black  skull  cap,  and  his  big 
hooked  nose,  and  the  yellow-leaved,  worm- 
eaten  books — of  magic:  all  doubts  were  now 
removed — that  for  hours  he  would  sit  por- 
ing over  through  owlish  gold-rimmed  spec- 
tacles ! 

Victor's  French  was  coming  back  to  him. 
He  was  anxious  to  know  if  Malvina  had  ever 
met  Sir  Launcelot — "to  talk  to." 

A  little  cloud  gathered  upon  Malvina's  face. 
Yes,  she  had  known  them  all:  King  Uthur  and 
Igraine  and  Sir  Ulfias  of  the  Isles.     Talked 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  113 

with  them,  walked  with  them  in  the  fair  lands 
of  France.  (It  ought  to  have  been  England, 
but  Malvina  shook  her  head.  Maybe  they  had 
travelled.)  It  was  she  who  had  saved  Sir  Tris- 
tram from  the  wiles  of  Morgan  le  Fay. 
"Though  that,  of  course/'  explained  Malvina, 
"was  never  known.' ' 

The  twins  were  curious  why  it  should  have 
been  "of  course,' '  but  did  not  like  to  interrupt 
again.  There  were  others  before  and  after. 
Most  of  them  the  twins  had  never  heard  of  until 
they  came  to  Charlemagne,  beyond  which  Mal- 
vina 's  reminiscences  appeared  to  fade. 

They  had  all  of  them  been  very  courteous  to 
her,  and  some  of  them  indeed  quite  charming. 
But  .  .  . 

One  gathers  they  had  never  been  to  Malvina 
more  than  mere  acquaintances,  such  as  one 
passes  the  time  with  while  waiting — and 
longing. 

"But  you  liked  Sir  Launcelot,"  urged  Vic- 
tor. He  was  wishful  that  Malvina  should 
admire  Sir  Launcelot,  feeling  how  much  there 
was  in  common  between  that  early  lamented 
knight  and  himself.    That  little  affair  with  Sir 


114  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

Bedivere.  It  was  just  how  he  would  have 
behaved  himself. 

Ah !  yes,  admitted  Malvina.  She  had  ' '  liked ' ' 
him.    He  was  always  so — so  ' '  excellent. ' ' 

"But  he  was  not — none  of  them  were  my  own 
people,  my  own  dear  companions.' '  The  little 
cloud  had  settled  down  again. 

It  was  Bruno  who  recalled  the  three  of  them 
to  the  period  of  contemporary  history.  Polley 
the  cowman's  first  duty  in  the  morning  was  to 
let  Bruno  loose  for  a  run.  He  arrived  panting 
and  breathless,  and  evidently  offended  at  not 
having  been  included  in  the  escapade.  He 
could  have  given  them  both  away  quite  easily  if 
he  had  not  been  the  most  forgiving  of  black- 
and-tan  collies.  As  it  was,  he  had  been  worry- 
ing himself  crazy  for  the  last  half -hour,  feeling 
sure  they  had  forgotten  the  time.  " Don't  you 
know  it's  nearly  six  o'clock?  That  in  less  than 
half  an  hour  Jane  will  be  knocking  at  your 
doors  with  glasses  of  hot  milk,  and  will  prob- 
ably drop  them  and  scream  when  she  finds  your 
beds  empty  and  the  window  wide  open."  That 
is  what  he  had  intended  should  be  his  first 
words,  but  on  scenting  Malvina  they  went  from 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  115 

him  entirely.  He  gave  her  one  look  and  flopped 
down  flat,  wriggling  towards  her,  whining  and 
wagging  his  tail  at  the  same  time.  Malvina 
acknowledged  his  homage  by  langhing  and  pat- 
ting his  head  with  her  foot,  and  that  sent  him 
into  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight.  They  all 
four  descended  the  hill  together  and  parted  at 
the  orchard  gate.  The  twins  expressed  a  polite 
but  quite  sincere  hope  that  they  would  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Malvina  again ;  but  Malvina, 
seized  maybe  with  sudden  doubts  as  to  whether 
she  had  behaved  with  discretion,  appears  to 
have  replied  evasively.  Ten  minutes  later  she 
was  lying  asleep,  the  golden  head  pillowed  on 
the  round  white  arm;  as  Mrs.  Muldoon  on  her 
way  down  to  the  kitchen  saw  for  herself.  And 
the  twins,  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  side  door 
open,  slipped  into  the  house  unnoticed  and 
scrambled  back  into  their  beds. 

It  was  quarter  past  nine  when  Mrs.  Arling- 
ton came  in  herself  and  woke  them  up.  She 
was  short-tempered  with  them  both  and  had 
evidently  been  crying.  They  had  their  break- 
fast in  the  kitchen. 


116  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

During  lunch  hardly  a  word  was  spoken. 
And  there  was  no  pudding.  Mr.  Arlington,  a 
stout,  florid  gentleman,  had  no  time  for  pud- 
ding. The  rest  might  sit  and  enjoy  it  at  their 
leisure,  but  not  so  Mr.  Arlington.  Somebody 
had  to  see  to  things — that  is,  if  they  were  not 
to  be  allowed  to  go  to  rack  and  ruin.  If  other 
people  could  not  be  relied  upon  to  do  their  duty, 
so  that  everything  inside  the  house  and  out  of 
it  was  thrown  upon  one  pair  of  shoulders,  then 
it  followed  as  a  natural  consequence  that  that 
pair  of  shoulders  could  not  spare  the  necessary 
time  to  properly  finish  its  meals.  This  it  was 
that  was  at  the  root  of  the  decay  of  English 
farming.  When  farmers '  wives,  to  say  nothing 
of  sons  and  daughters  old  enough  one  might 
imagine  to  be  anxious  to  do  something  in  repay- 
ment for  the  money  and  care  lavished  upon 
them,  had  all  put  their  shoulders  to  the  wheel, 
then  English  farming  had  prospered.  When, 
on  the  other  hand,  other  people  shirked  their 
fair  share  of  labour  and  responsibility,  leaving 
to  one  pair  of  hands  .  .  . 

It  was  the  eldest  Arlington  girl's  quite  aud- 
ible remark  that  pa  could  have  eaten  two  help- 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  117 

ings  of  pudding  while  he  had  been  talking,  that 
caused  Mr.  Arlington  to  lose  the  thread  of  his 
discourse.  To  put  it  quite  bluntly,  what  Mr. 
Arlington  meant  to  say  was  this :  He  had  never 
wanted  to  be  a  farmer — at  least  not  in  the 
beginning.  Other  men  in  his  position,  having 
acquired  competency  by  years  of  self-sacrificing 
labour,  would  have  retired  to  a  well-earned 
leisure.  Having  yielded  to  persuasion  and 
taken  on  the  job,  he  was  going  to  see  it  through ; 
and  everybody  else  was  going  to  do  their  share 
or  there  would  be  trouble. 

Mr.  Arlington,  swallowing  the  remains  of  his 
glass  in  a  single  gulp,  spoiled  a  dignified  exit  by 
violently  hiccoughing,  and  Mrs.  Arlington  rang 
the  bell  furiously  for  the  parlourmaid  to  clear 
away.  The  pudding  passed  untouched  from 
before  the  very  eyes  of  the  twins.  It  was  a 
black-currant  pudding  with  brown  sugar. 

That  night  Mrs.  Arlington  appears  to  have 
confided  in  the  twins,  partly  for  her  own  relief 
and  partly  for  their  moral  benefit.  If  Mrs. 
Arlington  had  enjoyed  the  blessing  in  disguise 
of  a  less  indulgent  mother,  all  might  have  been 
well.     By   nature    Mrs.    Arlington   had   been 


118  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

endowed  with  an  active  and  energetic  tempera- 
ment. "Miss  Can't-sit-still-a-minute,''  her 
nurse  had  always  called  her.  Unfortunately  it 
had  been  allowed  to  sink  into  disuse ;  was  now  in 
all  probability  beyond  hope  of  recovery.  Their 
father  was  quite  right.  When  they  had  lived 
in  Bayswater  and  the  business  was  in  Mincing 
Lane  it  did  not  matter.  Now  it  was  different. 
A  farmer's  wife  ought  to  be  up  at  six ;  she  ought 
to  see  that  everybody  else  was  up  at  six;  ser- 
vants looked  after,  kept  up  to  the  mark;  chil- 
dren encouraged  by  their  mother's  example. 
Organisation.  That  was  what  was  wanted. 
The  day  mapped  out;  to  every  hour  its  ap- 
pointed task.  Then,  instead  of  the  morning 
being  gone  before  you  could  turn  yourself 
round,  and  confusion  made  worse  confounded 
by  your  leaving  off  what  you  were  doing  and 
trying  to  do  six  things  at  once  that  you  couldn't 
remember  whether  you  had  done  or  whether 
you  hadn't  ... 

Here  Mrs.  Arlington  appears  to  have  dis- 
solved into  tears.  Generally  speaking,  she  was 
a  placid,  smiling,  most  amiable  lady,  quite 
delightful  to  have  about  the  house  provided  all 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  119 

you  demanded  of  her  were  pleasant  looks  and 
a  sunny  disposition.  The  twins  appear  to  have 
joined  their  tears  to  hers.  Tucked  in  and  left 
to  themselves,  one  imagines  the  problem  being 
discussed  with  grave  seriousness,  much  whis- 
pered conversation,  then  slept  upon,  the  morn- 
ing bringing  with  it  ideas.  The  result  being 
that  the  next  evening,  between  high  tea  and 
supper,  Mrs.  Muldoon,  answering  herself  the 
knock  at  the  door,  found  twin  figures  standing- 
hand  in  hand  on  the  Professor's  step. 
They  asked  her  if  "the  Fairy"  was  in. 


HOW  IT  WAS  TOLD  TO  MRS.  MARIGOLD 

THERE  was  no  need  of  the  proverbial 
feather.  Mrs.  Muldoon  made  a  grab  at 
the  settee  but  missed  it.  She  caught  at  a  chair, 
but  that  gave  way.  It  was  the  floor  that  finally 
stopped  her. 

"We're  so  sorry,"  apologised  Victor.  "We 
thought  you  knew.  We  ought  to  have  said 
Mademoiselle  Malvina. ' ' 

Mrs.  Muldoon  regained  her  feet,  and  with- 
out answering  walked  straight  into  the  study. 

"They  want  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Muldoon, 
"if  the  fairy's  in."  The  Professor,  with  his 
back  to  the  window,  was  reading.  The  light  in 
the  room  was  somewhat  faint. 

"Who  wants  to  know!"  demanded  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"The  twins  from  the  Manor  House,"  ex- 
plained Mrs.  Muldoon. 

120 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  121 

"But  what?— but  who?"  began  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"Shall  I  say  'not  at  home,?,,  suggested 
Mrs.  Muldoon.  ' ' Or  hadn't  you  better  see  them 
yourself  ?" 

"Show  them  in,"  directed  the  Professor. 

They  came  in,  looking  a  little  scared  and  still 
holding  one  another  by  the  hand.  They  wished 
the  Professor  good  evening,  and  when  he  rose 
they  backed  away  from  him.  The  Professor 
shook  hands  with  them,  but  they  did  not  let  go, 
so  that  Victoria  gave  him  her  right  hand  and 
Victor  his  left,  and  then  at  the  Professor's  invi- 
tation they  sat  themselves  down  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  sofa. 

"I  hope  we  do  not  disturb  you,"  said  Victor. 
"We  wanted  to  see  Mademoiselle  Malvina." 

"Why  do  you  want  to  see  Mademoiselle  Mal- 
vina?" inquired  the  Professor. 

"It  is  something  very  private,"  said  Victor. 

"We  wanted  to  ask  her  a  great  favour,"  said 
Victoria. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  the  Professor,  "but  she 
isn't  in.  At  least,  I  don't  think  so."  (The 
Professor  never  was  quite  sure.)    "She  slips  in 


122  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

and  out  making  no  more  noise  than  a  wind- 
driven  rose  leaf,"  was  Mrs.  Muldoon's  explana- 
tion. "Hadn't  you  better  tell  me?  Leave  me 
to  put  it  to  her. ' ' 

They  looked  at  one  another.  It  would  never 
do  to  offend  the  wise  and  learned  Christopher. 
Besides,  a  magician,  it  is  to  be  assumed,  has 
more  ways  than  one  of  learning  what  people 
are  thinking. 

"It  is  about  mamma,"  explained  Victoria. 
"We  wondered  if  Malvina  would  mind  chang- 
ing her. ' ' 

The  Professor  had  been  reading  up  Malvina. 
It  flashed  across  him  that  this  had  always  been 
her  speciality :  Changing  people.  How  had  the 
Arlington  twins  discovered  it?  And  why  did 
they  want  their  mother  changed?  And  what 
did  they  want  her  changed  into  ?  It  was  shock- 
ing when  you  come  to  think  of  it!  The  Pro- 
fessor became  suddenly  so  stern,  that  if  the 
twins  could  have  seen  his  expression — which, 
owing  to  the  fading  light,  they  couldn't 
— they  would  have  been  too  frightened  to 
answer. 

"Why  do  you  want  your  mother  changed !" 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  123 

demanded  the  Professor.  Even  as  it  was  his 
voice  alarmed  them. 

"It's  for  her  own  good,"  faltered  Victoria. 

"Of  course  we  don't  mean  into  anything,' ' 
explained  Victor. 

"Only  her  inside,"  added  Victoria. 

"We  thought  that  Malvina  might  be  able  to 
improve  her, ' '  completed  Victor. 

It  was  still  very  disgraceful.  What  were  we 
coming  to  when  children  went  about  clamouring 
for  their  mothers  to  be  "improved"!  The 
atmosphere  was  charged  with  indignation.  The 
twins  felt  it. 

"She  wants  to  be,"  persisted  Victoria.  "She 
wants  to  be  energetic  and  to  get  up  early  in  the 
morning  and  do  things." 

"You  see,"  added  Victor,  "she  was  never 
properly  brought  up." 

The  Professor  maintains  stoutly  that  his  only 
intention  was  a  joke.  It  was  not  even  as  if  any- 
thing objectionable  had  been  suggested.  The 
Professor  himself  had  on  occasions  been  made 
the  confidant  of  both. 

"Best  woman  that  ever  lived,  if  only  one 


124  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

could  graft  a  little  energy  upon  her.  No  sense 
of  time.  Too  easy-going.  No  idea  of  keeping 
people  up  to  the  mark."  So  Mr.  Arlington, 
over  the  nuts  and  wine. 

"It's  pure  laziness.  Oh,  yes,  it  is.  My 
friends  say  I'm  so  'restful';  but  that's  the 
proper  explanation  of  it — born  laziness.  And 
yet  I  try.  You  have  no  idea,  Professor  Little- 
cherry,  how  much  I  try."  So  Mrs.  Arlington, 
laughingly,  while  admiring  the  Professor's 
roses. 

Besides,  how  absurd  to  believe  that  Malvina 
could  possibly  change  anybody!  Way  back, 
when  the  human  brain  was  yet  in  process  of' 
evolution,  such  things  may  have  been  possible. 
Hypnotic  suggestion,  mesmeric  influence,  dor- 
mant brain  cells  quickened  into  activity  by  mag- 
netic vibration.  All  that  had  been  lost.  These 
were  the  days  of  George  the  Fifth,  not  of  King 
Heremon.  What  the  Professor  was  really  after 
was :  How  would  Malvina  receive  the  proposal? 
Of  course  she  would  try  to  get  out  of  it.  A  dear 
little  thing.  But  could  any  sane  man,  professor 
of  mathematics  .  .  . 

Malvina  was  standing  beside  him.    No  one 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  125 

had  remarked  her  entrance.  The  eyes  of  the 
twins  had  been  glued  upon  the  wise  and  learned 
Christopher.  The  Professor,  when  he  was 
thinking,  never  saw  anything.  Still,  it  was 
rather  startling. 

"We  should  never  change  what  the  good 
God  has  once  fashioned,' '  said  Malvina.  She 
spoke  very  gravely.  The  childishness  seemed 
to  have  fallen  from  her. 

"You  didn't  always  think  so,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor. It  nettled  the  Professor  that  all  idea  of 
this  being  a  good  joke  had  departed  with  the 
sound  of  Malvina 's  voice.  She  had  that  way 
with  her. 

She  made  a  little  gesture.  It  conveyed  to  the 
Professor  that  his  remark  had  not  been  alto- 
gether in  good  taste. 

"I  speak  as  one  who  has  learned,"  said  Mal- 
vina. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  Professor.  "I 
ought  not  to  have  said  that. ' ' 

Malvina  accepted  the  Professor's  apology 
with  a  bow. 

"But  this  is  something  very  different,"  con- 
tinued the  Professor.     Quite  another  interest 


126  MALVINA  OF  BEITTANY 

had  taken  hold  of  the  Professor.  It  was  easy 
enough  to  summon  Dame  Commonsense  to 
one's  aid  when  Malvina  was  not  present.  Be- 
fore those  strange  eyes  the  good  lady  had  a 
habit  of  sneaking  away.  Suppose — of  course 
the  idea  was  ridiculous,  but  suppose  something 
did  happen!  As  a  psychological  experiment 
was  not  one  justified?  What  was  the  beginning 
of  all  science  but  applied  curiosity?  Malvina 
might  be  able — and  willing — to  explain  how  it 
was  done.  That  is,  if  anything  did  happen, 
which,  of  course,  it  wouldn't,  and  so  much  the 
better.    This  thing  had  got  to  be  ended. 

"It  would  be  using  a  gift  not  for  one's  own 
purposes,  but  to  help  others,"  urged  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"You  see,"  urged  Victor,  "mamma  really 
wants  to  be  changed." 

"And  papa  wants  it,  too,"  urged  Victoria. 

"It  seems  to  me,  if  I  may  express  it,"  added 
the  Professor,  "that  really  it  would  be  in  the 
nature  of  making  amends  for — well,  for — for 
our  youthful  follies,"  concluded  the  Professor 
a  little  nervously. 

Malvina 's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  Professor. 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  127 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  low-ceilinged  room,  those 
eyes  seemed  all  of  her  that  was  visible. 

"You  wish  it?"  said  Malvina. 

It  was  not  at  all  fair,  as  the  Professor  told 
himself  afterwards,  her  laying  the  responsibil- 
ity on  him.  If  she  really  was  the  original  Mal- 
vina, lady-in-waiting  to  Queen  Harbundia,  then 
she  was  quite  old  enough  to  have  decided  for 
herself.  From  the  Professor's  calculations  she 
must  now  be  about  three  thousand  eight  hun- 
dred. The  Professor  himself  was  not  yet  sixty ; 
in  comparison  a  mere  babe!  But  Malvina's 
eyes  were  compelling. 

"Well,  it  can't  do  any  harm,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor. And  Malvina  seems  to  have  accepted 
that  as  her  authority. 

"Let  her  come  to  the  Cross  Stones  at  sun- 
down," directed  Malvina. 

The  Professor  saw  the  twins  to  the  door. 
For  some  reason  the  Professor  could  not  have 
explained,  they  all  three  walked  out  on  tiptoe. 
Old  Mr.  Brent,  the  postman,  was  passing,  and 
the  twins  ran  after  him  and  each  took  a  hand. 
Malvina  was  still  standing  where  the  Professor 


128  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

had  left  her.  It  was  very  absurd,  but  the  Pro- 
fessor felt  frightened.  He  went  into  the 
kitchen,  where  it  was  light  and  cheerful,  and 
started  Mrs.  Muldoon  on  Home  Rule.  When  he 
returned  to  the  parlour  Malvina  was  gone. 

The  twins  did  not  talk  that  night,  and  decided 
next  morning  not  to  say  a  word,  but  just  to  ask 
their  mother  to  come  for  an  evening  walk  with 
them.  The  fear  was  that  she  might  demand 
reasons.  But,  quite  oddly,  she  consented  with- 
out question.  It  seemed  to  the  twins  that  it  was 
Mrs.  Arlington  herself  who  took  the  pathway 
leading  past  the  cave,  and  when  they  reached 
the  Cross  Stones  she  sat  down  and  apparently 
had  forgotten  their  existence.  They  stole 
away  without  her  noticing  them,  but  did  not 
quite  know  what  to  do  with  themselves.  They 
ran  for  half  a  mile  till  they  came  to  the  wood ; 
there  they  remained  awhile,  careful  not  to  ven- 
ture within;  and  then  they  crept  back.  They 
found  their  mother  sitting  just  as  they  had  left 
her.  They  thought  she  was  asleep,  but  her  eyes 
were  wide  open.  They  were  tremendously 
relieved,  though  what  they  had  feared  they 
never  knew.    They  sat  down,  one  on  each  side 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  129 

of  her,  and  each  took  a  hand,  but  in  spite  of 
her  eyes  being  open,  it  was  qnite  a  time  before 
she  seemed  conscious  of  their  return.  She  rose 
and  slowly  looked  about  her,  and  as  she  did  so 
the  church  clock  struck  nine.  She  could  not  at 
first  believe  it  was  so  late.  Convinced  by  look- 
ing at  her  watch — there  was  just  light  enough 
for  her  to  see  it — she  became  all  at  once  more 
angry  than  the  twins  had  ever  known  her,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  their  lives  they  both  experi- 
enced the  sensation  of  having  their  ears  boxed. 
Nine  o'clock  was  the  proper  time  for  supper 
and  they  were  half  an  hour  from  home,  and 
it  was  all  their  fault.  It  did  not  take  them 
half  an  hour.  It  took  them  twenty  minutes, 
Mrs.  Arlington  striding  ahead  and  the  twins 
panting  breathless  behind  her.  Mr.  Arling- 
ton had  not  yet  returned.  He  came  in  five  min- 
utes afterwards,  and  Mrs.  Arlington  told  him 
what  she  thought  of  him.  It  was  the  shortest 
supper  within  the  twins'  recollection.  They 
found  themselves  in  bed  ten  minutes  in  advance 
of  the  record.  They  could  hear  their  mother's 
voice  from  the  kitchen.  A  jug  of  milk  had  been 
overlooked  and  had  gone  sour.    She  had  given 


130  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

Jane  a  week's  notice  before  the  clock  struck 
ten. 

It  was  from  Mr.  Arlington  that  the  Professor 
heard  the  news.  Mr.  Arlington  could  not  stop 
an  instant,  dinner  being  at  twelve  sharp  and  it 
wanting  but  ten  minutes  to ;  but  seems  to  have 
yielded  to  temptation.  The  breakfast  hour  at 
the  Manor  Farm  was  now  six  a.m.,  had  been  so 
since  Thursday;  the  whole  family  fully  dressed 
and  Mrs.  Arlington  presiding.  If  the  Professor 
did  not  believe  it  he  could  come  round  any 
morning  and  see  for  himself.  The  Professor 
appears  to  have  taken  Mr.  Arlington's  word  for 
it.  By  six-thirty  everybody  at  their  job  and 
Mrs.  Arlington  at  hers,  consisting  chiefly  of  see- 
ing to  it  for  the  rest  of  the  day  that  everybody 
was.  Lights  out  at  ten  and  everybody  in  bed ; 
most  of  them  only  too  glad  to  be  there.  "Quite 
right;  keeps  us  all  up  to  the  mark,"  was  Mr. 
Arlington's  opinion  (this  was  on  Saturday). 
Just  what  was  wanted.  Not  perhaps  for  a  per- 
manency;  and,  of  course,  there  were  drawbacks. 
The  strenuous  life— seeing  to  it  that  everybody 
else  leads  the  strenuous  life ;  it  does  not  go  with 
unmixed  amiability.    Particularly  in  the  begin- 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  131 

ning.  New-born  zeal :  must  expect  it  to  outrun 
discretion.  Does  not  do  to  discourage  it.  Modi- 
fications to  be  suggested  later.  Taken  all  round, 
Mr.  Arlington's  view  was  that  the  thing  must 
be  regarded  almost  as  the  answer  to  a  prayer. 
Mr.  Arlington's  eyes  on  their  way  to  higher 
levels,  appear  to  have  been  arrested  by  the 
church  clock.  It  decided  Mr.  Arlington  to 
resume  his  homeward  way  without  further  loss 
of  time.  At  the  bend  of  the  lane  the  Professor, 
looking  back,  observed  that  Mr.  Arlington  had 
broken  into  a  trot. 

This  seems  to  have  been  the  end  of  the  Pro- 
fessor, regarded  as  a  sane  and  intelligent  mem- 
ber of  modern  society.  He  had  not  been  sure 
at  the  time,  but  it  was  now  revealed  to  him  that 
when  he  had  urged  Malvina  to  test  her  strength, 
bo  to  express  it,  on  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Arling- 
ton, it  was  with  the  conviction  that  the  result 
would  restore  him  to  his  mental  equilibrium. 
That  Malvina  with  a  wave  of  her  wand — or 
whatever  the  hocus-pocus  may  have  been — 
would  be  able  to  transform  the  hitherto  incor- 
rigibly indolent  and  easy-going  Mrs.  Arlington 


132  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

into  a  sort  of  feminine  Lloyd  George,  had  not 
really  entered  into  his  calculations. 

Forgetting  his  lunch,  he  must  have  wandered 
aimlessly  about,  not  returning  home  until  late 
in  the  afternoon.  During  dinner  he  appears  to 
have  been  rather  restless  and  nervous — 
"jumpy,"  according  to  the  evidence  of  the  little 
serving  maid.  Once  he  sprang  out  of  his  chair 
as  if  shot  when  the  little  serving  maid  acciden- 
tally let  fall  a  tablespoon;  and  twice  he  upset 
the  salt.  It  was  at  meal  time  that,  as  a  rule,  the 
Professor  found  his  attitude  towards  Malvina 
most  sceptical.  A  fairy  who  could  put  away 
quite  a  respectable  cut  from  the  joint,  followed 
by  two  helpings  of  pie,  does  take  a  bit  of  believ- 
ing in.  To-night  the  Professor  found  no  diffi- 
culty. The  White  Ladies  had  never  been  averse 
to  accepting  mortal  hospitality.  There  must 
always  have  been  a  certain  adaptability.  Mal- 
vina, since  that  fateful  night  of  her  banishment, 
had,  one  supposes,  passed  through  varied  expe- 
riences. For  present  purposes  she  had  assumed 
the  form  of  a  jeune  fille  of  the  twentieth  century 
(anno  Domini).  An  appreciation  of  Mrs.  Mul- 
doon's  excellent  cooking,  together  with  a  glass 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  133 

of  light  sound  claret,  would  naturally  go  with 
it. 

One  takes  it  that  he  could  not  for  a  moment 
get  Mrs.  Arlington  out  of  his  mind.  More  than 
once,  stealing  a  covert  glance  across  the  table, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  Malvina  was  regarding 
him  with  a  mocking  smile.  Some  impish  spirit 
it  must  have  been  that  had  prompted  him.  For 
thousands  of  years  Malvina  had  led — at  all 
events  so  far  as  was  known — a  reformed  and 
blameless  existence;  had  subdued  and  put  be- 
hind her  that  fatal  passion  of  hers  for  change: 
in  other  people.  What  madness  to  have  revived 
it!  And  no  Queen  Harbundia  handy  now  to 
keep  her  in  check.  The  Professor  had  a  distinct 
sensation,  while  peeling  a  pear,  that  he  was 
being  turned  into  a  guinea-pig — a  curious  feel- 
ing of  shrinking  about  the  legs.  So  vivid  was 
the  impression,  that  involuntarily  the  Professor 
jumped  off  his  chair  and  ran  to  look  at  himself 
in  the  mirror  over  the  sideboard.  He  was  not 
fully  relieved  even  then.  It  may  have  been  the 
mirror.  It  was  very  old;  one  of  those  things 
with  little  gilt  balls  all  round  it ;  and  it  looked  to 
the   Professor   as    if   his   nose   was    growing 


134  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

straight  out  of  his  face.  Malvina,  trusting  he 
had  not  been  taken  suddenly  ill,  asked  if  there 
was  anything  she  could  do  for  him.  He  seems 
to  have  earnestly  begged  her  not  to  think  of  it. 

The  Professor  had  taught  Malvina  cribbage, 
and  usually  of  an  evening  they  played  a  hand 
or  two.  But  to-night  the  Professor  was  not  in 
the  mood,  and  Malvina  had  contented  herself 
with  a  book.  She  was  particularly  fond  of  the 
old  chroniclers.  The  Professor  had  an  entire 
shelf  of  them,  many  in  the  original  French. 
Making  believe  to  be  reading  himself,  he  heard 
Malvina  break  into  a  cheerful  laugh,  and  went 
and  looked  over  her  shoulder.  She  was  reading 
the  history  of  her  own  encounter  with  the  pro- 
prietor of  tin  mines,  an  elderly  gentleman  dis- 
liking late  hours,  whom  she  had  turned  into  a 
nightingale.  It  occurred  to  the  Professor  that 
prior  to  the  Arlington  case  the  recalling  of 
this  incident  would  have  brought  to  her  shame 
and  remorse.  Now  she  seemed  to  think  it 
funny. 

"A  silly  trick,' '  commented  the  Professor. 
He  spoke  quite  heatedly.  "No  one  has  any 
right  to  go  about  changing  people.    Muddling 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  135 

up  things  they  don't  understand.  No  right 
whatever. ' ' 

Malvina  looked  up.    She  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"Not  for  one's  own  pleasure  or  revenge,' ' 
she  made  answer.  Her  tone  was  filled  with 
meekness.  It  had  a  touch  of  self-reproach. 
' '  That  is  very  wrong,  of  course.  But  changing 
them  for  their  own  good — at  least,  not  chang- 
ing, improving." 

"Little  hypocrite!"  muttered  the  Professor 
to  himself.  "She's  got  back  a  taste  for  her  old 
tricks,  and  Lord  knows  now  where  she'll  stop." 

The  Professor  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening 
among  his  indexes  in  search  of  the  latest  in- 
formation regarding  Queen  Harbundia. 

Meanwhile  the  Arlington  affair  had  got  about 
the  village.  The  twins  in  all  probability  had 
been  unable  to  keep  their  secret.  Jane,  the  dis- 
missed, had  looked  in  to  give  Mrs.  Muldoon  her 
version  of  Thursday  night's  scene  in  the 
Arlington  kitchen,  and  Mrs.  Muldoon,  with  a 
sense  of  things  impending,  may  unconsciously 
have  dropped  hints. 

The  Marigolds  met  the  Arlingtons  on  Sun- 
day,   after    morning    service,    and    heard    all 


136  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

about  it.  That  is  to  say,  they  met  Mr. 
Arlington  and  the  other  children;  Mrs.  Ar- 
lington, with  the  two  elder  girls,  having  already 
attended  early  communion  at  seven.  Mrs. 
Marigold  was  a  pretty,  fluffy,  engaging  lit- 
tle woman,  ten  years  younger  than  her  husband. 
She  could  not  have  been  altogether  a  fool,  or 
she  would  not  have  known  it.  Marigold,  a  ris- 
ing politician,  ought,  of  course,  to  have  married 
a  woman  able  to  help  him;  but  seems  to  have 
fallen  in  love  with  her  a  few  miles  out  of  Brus- 
sels, over  a  convent  wall.  Mr.  Arlington  was 
not  a  regular  church-goer,  but  felt  on  this  occa- 
sion that  he  owed  it  to  his  Maker.  He  was  still 
in  love  with  his  new  wife.  But  not  blindly. 
Later  on  a  guiding  hand  might  be  necessary. 
But  first  let  the  new  seed  get  firmly  rooted. 
Marigold's  engagements  necessitated  his  re- 
turning to  town  on  Sunday  afternoon,  and  Mrs. 
Marigold  walked  part  of  the  way  with  him  to 
the  station.  On  her  way  back  across  the  fields 
she  picked  up  the  Arlington  twins.  Later,  she 
seems  to  have  called  in  at  the  cottage  and 
spoken  to  Mrs.  Muldoon  about  Jane,  who,  she 
had  heard,  was  in  want  of  a  place.    A  little 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY         137 

before  sunset  she  was  seen  by  the  Doctor  climb- 
ing the  path  to  the  Warren.  Malvina  that  even- 
ing was  missing  for  dinner.  When  she  returned 
she  seemed  pleased  with  herself. 


VI 

AND  HOW  IT  WAS  FINISHED  TOO  SOON 

SOME  days  later — it  may  have  been  the  next 
week;  the  exact  date  appears  to  have  got 
mislaid — Marigold,  M.P.,  looked  in  on  the  Pro- 
fessor. They  talked  about  Tariff  Reform,  and 
then  Marigold  got  up  and  made  sure  for  him- 
self that  the  door  was  tight  closed. 

' i  You  know  my  wife, ' '  he  said.  ' '  We  've  been 
married  six  years,  and  there's  never  been  a 
cloud  between  us  except  one.  Of  course,  she's 
not  brainy.    That  is,  at  least  ..." 

The  Professor  jumped  out  of  his  chair. 

"If  you  take  my  advice,"  he  said,  "you'll 
leave  her  alone."  He  spoke  with  passion  and 
conviction. 

Marigold  looked  up. 

"It's  just  what  I  wish  to  goodness  I  had 
done,"  he  answered.  "I  blame  myself  en- 
tirely." 

138 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  139 

"So  long  as  we  see  our  own  mistakes,' '  said 
the  Professor,  "there  is  hope  for  us  all.  You 
go  straight  home,  young  man,  and  tell  her 
you've  changed  your  mind.  Tell  her  you  don't 
want  her  with  brains.  Tell  her  you  like  her  best 
without.  You  get  that  into  her  head  before  any- 
thing else  happens." 

"I've  tried  to,"  said  Marigold.  "She  says 
it's  too  late.  That  the  light  has  come  to  her 
and  she  can't  help  it." 

It  was  the  Professor's  turn  to  stare.  He  had 
not  heard  anything  of  Sunday's  transactions. 
He  had  been  hoping  against  hope  that  the 
Arlington  affair  would  remain  a  locked  secret 
between  himself  and  the  twins,  and  had  done 
his  best  to  think  about  everything  else. 

"She's  joined  the  Fabian  Society,"  contin- 
ued Marigold  gloomily.  "They've  put  her  in 
the  nursery.  And  the  W.S.P.U.  If  it  gets 
about  before  the  next  election  I'll  have  to  look 
out  for  another  constituency — that's  all." 

"How  did  you  hear  about  her  I"  asked  the 
Professor. 

"I  didn't  hear  about  her,"  answered  Mari- 
gold.   "If  I  had  I  mightn't  have  gone  up  to 


140  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

town.    You  think  it  rights '  he  added,  "to — to 
encourage  such  people. ' ' 

"Who's  encouraging  her?"  demanded  the 
Professor.  "If  fools  didn't  go  about  thinking 
they  could  improve  every  other  fool  but  them- 
selves, this  sort  of  thing  wouldn't  happen. 
Arlington  had  an  amiable,  sweet-tempered  wife, 
and  instead  of  thanking  God  and  keeping  quiet 
about  it,  he  worries  her  out  of  her  life  because 
she  is  not  the  managing  woman.  Well,  now  he 's 
got  the  managing  woman.  I  met  him  on  Wed- 
nesday with  a  bump  on  his  forehead  as  big  as 
an  egg.  Says  he  fell  over  the  mat.  It  can't 
be  done.  You  can't  have  a  person  changed  just 
as  far  as  you  want  them  changed  and  there 
stop.  You  let  'em  alone  or  you  change  them 
altogether,  and  then  they  don't  know  them- 
selves what  they're  going  to  turn  out.  A  sen- 
sible man  in  your  position  would  have  been  only 
too  thankful  for  a  wife  who  didn't  poke  her 
nose  into  his  affairs,  and  with  whom  he  could 
get  away  from  his  confounded  politics.  You've 
been  hinting  to  her  about  once  a  month,  I 
expect,  what  a  tragedy  it  was  that  you  hadn't 
married  a  woman  with  brains.    Well,  now  she's 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY         141 

found  her  brains  and  is  using  them.  Why 
shouldn't  she  belong  to  the  Fabian  Society  and 
the  W.S.P.U.?  Shows  independence  of  charac- 
ter. Best  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  join  them 
yourself.  Then  you'll  be  able  to  work  to- 
gether. ' ' 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Marigold,  rising.  "I 
didn't  know  you  agreed  with  her." 

"Who  said  I  agreed  with  her?"  snapped  the 
Professor.    "  I  'm  in  a  very  awkward  position. ' ' 

"I  suppose,"  said  Marigold — he  was  hesi- 
tating with  the  door  in  his  hand — "it  wouldn't 
be  of  any  use  my  seeing  her  myself?" 

"I  believe,"  said  the  Professor,  "that  she  is 
fond  of  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Cross  Stones 
towards  sundown.  You  can  choose  for  your- 
self, but  if  I  were  you  I  should  think  twice  about 
it." 

"I  was  wondering,"  said  Marigold,  "wheth- 
er, if  I  put  it  to  her  as  a  personal  favour,  she 
might  not  be  willing  to  see  Edith  again  and  per- 
suade her  that  she  was  only  joking?" 

A  light  began  to  break  upon  the  Professor. 

"What  do  you  think  has  happened?"  he 
asked. 


142  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

"Well,"  explained  Marigold,  "I  take  it  that 
your  young  foreign  friend  has  met  my  wife 
and  talked  politics  to  her,  and  that  what  has 
happened  is  the  result.  She  must  be  a  young- 
person  of  extraordinary  ability;  but  it  would 
be  only  losing  one  convert,  and  I  could  make  it 
up  to  her  in — in  other  ways."  He  spoke  with 
unconscious  pathos.  It  rather  touched  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"It  might  mean,"  said  the  Professor — "that 
is,  assuming  that  it  can  be  done  at  all — Mrs. 
Marigold's  returning  to  her  former  self  en- 
tirely, taking  no  further  interest  in  politics 
whatever. ' ' 

"I  should  be  so  very  grateful,"  answered 
Marigold. 

The  Professor  had  mislaid  his  spectacles,  but 
thinks  there  was  a  tear  in  Marigold's  eye. 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,"  said  the  Professor. 
"Of  course,  you  mustn't  count  on  it.  It  may  be 
easier  to  start  a  woman  thinking  than  to  stop 

her,  even  for  a "    The  Professor  checked 

himself  just  in  time.  "I'll  talk  to  her,"  he 
said;  and  Marigold  gripped  his  hand  and  de- 
parted. 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  143 

It  was  about  time  lie  did.  The  full  extent  of 
Malvina's  activities  during  those  few  midsum- 
mer weeks,  till  the  return  of  Flight-Commander 
Raffieton,  will  never  perhaps  be  fully  revealed. 
According  to  the  Doctor,  the  whole  business  has 
been  grossly  exaggerated.  There  are  those  who 
talk  as  if  half  the  village  had  been  taken  to 
pieces,  altered  and  improved  and  sent  back 
home  again  in  a  mental  state  unrecognisable  by 
their  own  mothers.  Certain  it  is  that  Dawson, 
R.A.,  generally  described  by  everybody  except 
his  wife  as  "a  lovable  little  man,"  and  whose 
only  fault  was  an  incurable  habit  of  punning, 
both  in  season — if  such  a  period  there  be — and 
more  often  out,  suddenly  one  morning  smashed 
a  Dutch  interior,  fifteen  inches  by  nine,  over  the 
astonished  head  of  Mrs.  Dawson.  It  clung 
round  her  neck,  recalling  biblical  pictures  of 
the  head  of  John  the  Baptist,  and  the  frame- 
work had  to  be  sawn  through  before  she  could 
get  it  off.  As  to  the  story  about  his  having  been 
caught  by  Mrs.  Dawson's  aunt  kissing  the 
housemaid  behind  the  waterbutt,  that,  as  the 
Doctor  admits,  is  a  bit  of  bad  luck  that  might 
have  happened  to  anyone.    But  whether  there 


144  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

was  really  any  evidence  connecting  him  with 
Dolly  Calthorpe's  unaccountable  missing  of  the 
last  train  home,  is,  of  course,  a  more  serious 
matter.  Mrs.  Dawson,  a  handsome,  high- 
spirited  woman  herself,  may  reasonably  have 
found  Dawson,  as  originally  fashioned,  trying 
to  the  nerves;  though  even  then  the  question 
arises:  Why  have  married  him!  But  there  is 
a  difference,  as  Mrs.  Dawson  has  pointed  out, 
between  a  husband  who  hasn't  enough  of  the 
natural  man  in  him  and  a  husband  who  has  a 
deal  too  much.  It  is  difficult  to  regulate  these 
matters. 

Altogether,  and  taking  an  outside  estimate, 
the  Doctor's  opinion  is  that  there  may  have 
been  half  a  dozen,  who,  with  Malvina's  assist- 
ance, succeeded  in  hypnotising  themselves  into 
temporary  insanity.  tWhen  Malvina,  a  little 
disappointed,  but  yielding  quite  sweetly  her 
own  judgment  to  that  of  the  wise  and  learned 
Christopher,  consented  to  " restore"  them,  the 
explanation  was  that,  having  spent  their  burst 
of  ill-acquired  energy,  they  fell  back  at  the  first 
suggestion  to  their  former  selves. 

Mrs.  Arlington  does  not  agree  with  the  Doc- 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  145 

tor.    She  had  been  trying  to  reform  herself  for 
quite  a  long  time  and  had  miserably  failed. 
There   was   something   about   them— it   might 
almost  be  described  as  an  aroma — that  prompt- 
ed her  that  evening  to  take  the  twins  into  her 
confidence ;  a  sort  of  intuition  that  in  some  way 
they  could  help  her.    It  remained  with  her  all 
the  next  day;  and  when  the  twins  returned  in 
the  evening,  in  company  with  the  postman,  she 
knew  instinctively  that  they  had  been  about  her 
business.    It  was  this  same  intuitive  desire  that 
drew  her  to  the  Downs.     She  is  confident  she 
would  have  taken  that  walk  to  the  Cross  Stones 
even  if  the  twins  had  not  proposed  it.    Indeed, 
according  to  her  own  account,   she   was  not 
aware  that  the  twins   had  accompanied  her. 
There  was  something  about  the  stones — a  sense 
as  of  a  presence.    She  knew  when  she  reached 
them  that  she  had  arrived  at  the  appointed 
place ;  and  when  there  appeared  to  her — coming 
from  where  she  could  not  tell — a  diminutive 
figure  that  seemed  in  some  mysterious  way  as  if 
it  were  clothed  merely  in  the  fading  light,  she 
remembered   distinctly   that    she   was   neither 
surprised  nor  alarmed.     The  diminutive  lady 


146  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

sat  down  beside  her  and  took  Mrs.  Arling- 
ton's hands  in  both  her  own.  She  spoke  in  a 
strange  language,  but  Mrs.  Arlington  at  the 
time  understood  it,  though  now  the  meaning  of 
it  had  passed  from  her.  Mrs.  Arlington  felt  as 
if  her  body  were  being  taken  away  from  her. 
She  had  a  sense  of  falling,  a  feeling  that  she 
must  make  some  desperate  effort  to  rise  again. 
The  strange  little  lady  was  helping  her,  assist- 
ing her  to  make  this  supreme  effort.  It  was 
as  if  ages  were  passing.  She  was  wrestling 
with  unknown  powers.  Suddenly  she  seemed  to 
slip  from  them.  The  little  lady  was  holding  her 
up.  Clasping  each  other,  they  rose  and  rose 
and  rose.  Mrs.  Arlington  had  a  firm  conviction 
that  she  must  always  be  struggling  upward,  or 
they  would  overtake  her  and  drag  her  down 
again.  When  she  awoke  the  little  lady  had 
gone,  but  that  feeling  remained  with  her;  that 
passionate  acceptance  of  ceaseless  struggle, 
activity,  contention,  as  now  the  end  and  aim  of 
her  existence.  At  first  she  did  not  recollect 
where  she  was.  A  strange  colourless  light  was 
around  her,  and  a  strange  singing  as  of  myriads 
of  birds.    And  then  the  clock  struck  nine  and 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  147 

life  came  back  to  her  with  a  rush.  But  with  it 
still  that  conviction  that  she  must  seize  hold  of 
herself  and  everybody  else  and  get  things  done. 
Its  immediate  expression,  as  already  has  been 
mentioned,  was  experienced  by  the  twins. 

When,  after  a  talk  with  the  Professor,  aided 
and  abetted  by  Mr.  Arlington  and  the  eldest 
Arlington  girl,  she  consented  to  pay  that  second 
visit  to  the  stones,  it  was  with  very  different 
sensations  that  she  climbed  the  grass-grown 
path.  The  little  lady  had  met  her  as  before,  but 
the  curious  deep  eyes  looked  sadly,  and  Mrs. 
Arlington  had  the  impression,  generally  speaks 
ing,  that  she  was  about  to  assist  at  her  own 
funeral.  Again  the  little  lady  took  her  by  the 
hands,  and  again  she  experienced  that  terror 
of  falling.  But  instead  of  ending  with  contest 
and  effort  she  seemed  to  pass  into  a  sleep,  and 
when  she  opened  her  eyes  she  was  again  alone. 
Feeling  a  little  chilly  and  unreasonably  tired, 
she  walked  slowly  home,  and  not  being  hungry, 
retired  supperless  to  bed.  Quite  unable  to 
explain  why,  she  seems  to  have  cried  herself  to 
sleep. 

One   supposes  that  something  of  a  similar 


148  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

nature  may  have  occurred  to  the  others — with 
the  exception  of  Mrs.  Marigold.  It  was  the  case 
of  Mrs.  Marigold  that,  as  the  Doctor  grudg- 
ingly admits,  went  far  to  weaken  his  hypothesis. 
Mrs.  Marigold,  having  emerged,  was  spreading 
herself,  much  to  her  own  satisfaction.  She  had 
discarded  her  wedding  ring  as  a  relic  of  barbar- 
ism— of  the  days  when  women  were  mere  goods 
and  chattels,  and  had  made  her  first  speech  at 
a  meeting  in  favour  of  marriage  reform.  Sub- 
terfuge, in  her  case,  had  to  be  resorted  to.  Mal- 
vina  had  tearfully  consented,  and  Marigold, 
M.P.,  was  to  bring  Mrs.  Marigold  to  the  Cross 
Stones  that  same  evening  and  there  leave  her, 
-explaining  to  her  that  Malvina  had  expressed 
a  wish  to  see  her  again — "just  for  a  chat/' 

All  might  have  ended  well  if  only  Commander 
Raffleton  had  not  appeared  framed  in  the  par- 
lour door  just  as  Malvina  was  starting.  His 
Cousin  Christopher  had  written  to  the  Com- 
mander. Indeed,  after  the  Arlington  affair, 
quite  pressingly,  and  once  or  twice  had  thought 
he  heard  the  sound  of  Flight  Commander  Raf- 
fleton's  propeller,  but  on  each  occasion  had  been 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  149 

disappointed.  "Affairs  of  State,"  Cousin 
Christopher  had  explained  to  Malvina,  who, 
familiar  one  takes  it  with  the  calls  npon  knights 
and  warriors  through  all  the  ages,  had  ap- 
proved. 

He  stood  there  with  his  helmet  in  his  hand. 

"Only  arrived  this  afternoon  from  France," 
he  explained.    "Haven't  a  moment  to  spare." 

But  he  had  just  time  to  go  straight  to  Mal- 
vina. He  laughed  as  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  full  upon  the  lips. 

When  last  he  had  kissed  her — it  had  been  in 
the  orchard — the  Professor  had  been  witness  to 
it — Malvina  had  remained  quite  passive,  only 
that  curious  little  smile  about  her  lips.  But 
now  an  odd  thing  happened.  A  quivering 
seemed  to  pass  through  all  her  body,  so  that  it 
swayed  and  trembled.  The  Professor  feared 
she  was  going  to  fall ;  and  maybe  to  save  her- 
self, she  put  up  her  arms  about  Commander 
Raffleton's  neck,  and  with  a  strange  low  cry — 
it  sounded  to  the  Professor  like  the  cry  one 
sometimes  hears  at  night  from  some  little 
dying  creature  of  the  woods — she  clung  to  him 
sobbing. 


150  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

It  must  have  been  a  while  later  when  the 
chiming  of  the  clock  recalled  to  the  Professor 
the  appointment  with  Mrs.  Marigold. 

"You  will  only  just  have  time,"  he  said, 
gently  seeking  to  release  her.  "I'll  promise  to 
keep  him  till  you  come  back. ' 9  And  as  Malvina 
did  not  seem  to  understand,  he  reminded  her. 

But  still  she  made  no  movement,  save  for  a 
little  gesture  of  the  hands  as  if  she  were  seek- 
ing to  lay  hold  of  something  unseen.  And  then 
she  dropped  her  arms  and  looked  from  one  of 
them  to  the  other.  The  Professor  did  not  think 
of  it  at  the  time,  but  remembered  afterwards; 
that  strange  aloofness  of  hers,  as  if  she  were 
looking  at  you  from  another  world.  One  no 
longer  felt  it. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said.  "It  is  too  late. 
I  am  only  a  woman." 

And  Mrs.  Marigold  is  still  thinking. 


THE  PROLOGUE 

AND  here  follows  the  Prologue.  It  ought, 
of  course,  to  have  been  written  first,  but 
nobody  knew  of  it  until  quite  the  end  entirely. 
It  was  told  to  Commander  Raffleton  by  a 
French  comrade,  who  in  days  of  peace  had  been 
a  painter,  mingling  with  others  of  his  kind, 
especially  such  as  found  their  inspiration  in  the 
wide  horizons  and  legend-haunted  dells  of  old1 
world  Brittany.  Afterwards  the  Commander 
told  it  to  the  Professor,  and  the  Professor's 
only  stipulation  was  that  it  should  not  be  told 
to  the  Doctor,  at  least  for  a  time.  For  the  Doc- 
tor would  see  in  it  only  confirmation  for  his 
own  narrow  sense-bound  theories,  while  to  the 
Professor  it  confirmed  beyond  a  doubt  the  abso- 
lute truth  of  this  story. 

It  commenced  in  the  year  Eighteen  hundred 
and  ninety-eight  (Anno  Domini),  on  a  particu- 

151 


152  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

larly  unpleasant  evening  in  late  February — "a 
stormy  winter's  night,"  one  would  describe  it, 
were  one  writing  mere  romance.  It  came  to  the 
lonely  cottage  of  Madame  Lavigne  on  the  edge 
of  the  moor  that  surrounds  the  sunken  village 
of  Aven-a-Christ.  Madame  Lavigne,  who  was 
knitting  stockings — for  she  lived  by  knitting 
stockings — heard,  as  she  thought,  a  passing  of 
feet,  and  what  seemed  like  a  rap  at  the  door. 
She  dismissed  the  idea,  for  who  would  be  pass- 
ing at  such  an  hour,  and  where  there  was  no 
road?  But  a  few  minutes  later  the  tapping 
came  again,  and  Madame  Lavigne,  taking  her 
candle  in  her  hand,  went  to  see  who  was  there. 
The  instant  she  released  the  latch  a  gust  of  wind 
blew  out  the  candle,  and  Madame  Lavigne  could 
see  no  one.  She  called,  but  there  was  no 
answer.  She  was  about  to  close  the  door  again 
when  she  heard  a  faint  sound.  It  was  not 
exactly  a  cry.  It  was  as  if  someone  she  could 
not  see,  in  the  tiniest  of  voices,  had  said  some- 
thing she  could  not  understand. 

Madame  Lavigne  crossed  herself  and  mut- 
tered a  prayer,  and  then  she  heard  it  again.  It 
seemed  to  come  from  close  at  her  feet,  and  feel- 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  153 

ing  with  her  hands — for  she  thought  it  might 
be  a  stray  cat — she  found  quite  a  large  parcel. 
It  was  warm  and  soft,  though,  of  course,  a  bit 
wet,  and  Madame  Lavigne  brought  it  in,  and 
having  closed  the  door  and  re-lit  her  candle, 
laid  it  on  the  table.  And  then  she  saw  it  was 
the  tiniest  of  babies. 

It  must  always  be  a  difficult  situation. 
Madame  Lavigne  did  what  most  people  would 
have  done  in  the  case.  She  unrolled  the  wrap- 
pings, and  taking  the  little  thing  on  her  lap,  sat 
down  in  front  of  the  dull  peat  fire  and  consid- 
ered. It  seemed  wonderfully  contented,  and 
Madame  Lavigne  thought  the  best  thing  to  do 
would  be  to  undress  it  and  put  it  to  bed,  and 
then  go  on  with  her  knitting.  She  would  consult 
Father  Jean  in  the  morning  and  take  his  ad- 
vice. She  had  never  seen  such  fine  clothes. 
She  took  them  off  one  by  one,  lovingly  feeling 
their  texture,  and  when  she  finally  removed  the 
last  little  shift  and  the  little  white  thing  lay 
exposed,  Madame  Lavigne  sprang  up  with  a  cry 
and  all  but  dropped  it  into  the  fire.  For  she 
saw  by  the  mark  that  every  Breton  peasant 
knows  that  it  was  not  a  child,  but  a  fairy. 


154  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

Her  proper  course,  as  she  well  knew,  was  to 
have  opened  the  door  and  flung  it  out  into  the 
darkness.  Most  women  of  the  village  would 
have  done  so,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  night  on 
their  knees.  But  someone  must  have  chosen 
with  foresight.  There  came  to  Madame  La- 
vigne  the  memory  of  her  good  man  and  her 
three  tall  sons,  taken  from  her  one  by  one  by 
the  jealous  sea,  and,  come  what  might  of  it,  she 
could  not  do  it.  The  little  thing  understood, 
that  was  clear,  for  it  smiled  quite  knowingly 
and  stretched  out  its  little  hands,  touching 
Madame  Lavigne's  brown  withered  skin,  and 
stirring  forgotten  beatings  of  her  heart. 

Father  Jean — one  takes  him  to  have  been  a 
tolerant,  gently  wise  old  gentleman — could  see 
no  harm.  That  is,  if  Madame  Lavigne  could 
afford  the  luxury.  Maybe  it  was  a  good  fairy. 
Would  bring  her  luck.  And  certain  it  is  that 
the  cackling  of  Madame's  hens  was  heard  more 
often  than  before,  and  the  weeds  seemed  fewer 
in  the  little  patch  of  garden  that  Madame 
Lavigne  had  rescued  from  the  moor. 

Of  course,  the  news  spread.  One  gathers  that 
Madame  Lavigne  rather  gave  herself  airs.    But 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  155 

the  neighbours  shook  their  heads,  and  the  child 
grew  up  lonely  and  avoided.  Fortunately,  the 
cottage  was  far  from  other  houses,  and  there 
was  always  the  great  moor  with  its  deep  hid- 
ing-places. Father  Jean  was  her  sole  play- 
mate. He  would  take  her  with  him  on  his  long 
tramps  through  his  scattered  district,  leaving 
her  screened  among  the  furze  and  bracken  near 
to  the  solitary  farmsteads  where  he  made  his 
visitations. 

He  had  learned  it  was  useless :  all  attempts  of 
Mother  Church  to  scold  out  of  this  sea-  and 
moor-girt  flock  their  pagan  superstitions.  He 
would  leave  it  to  time.  Later,  perhaps,  oppor- 
tunity might  occur  to  place  the  child  in  some 
convent,  where  she  would  learn  to  forget,  and 
grow  into  a  good  Catholic.  Meanwhile,  one  had 
to  take  pity  on  the  little  lonely  creature.  Not 
entirely  for  her  own  sake  maybe ;  a  dear  affec- 
tionate little  soul  strangely  wise ;  so  she  seemed 
to  Father  Jean.  Under  the  shade  of  trees  or 
sharing  warm  shelter  with  the  soft-eyed  cows, 
he  would  teach  her  from  his  small  stock  of 
knowledge.  Every  now  and  then  she  would 
startle    him    with    an    intuition,    a    comment 


156  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

strangely  unchildlike.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
known  all  about  it,  long  ago.  Father  Jean  would 
steal  a  swift  glance  at  her  from  under  his 
shaggy  eyebrows  and  fall  into  a  silence.  It  was 
curious  also  how  the  wild  things  of  the  field  and 
wood  seemed  unafraid  of  her.  At  times,  return- 
ing to  where  he  had  left  her  hidden,  he  would 
pause,  wondering  to  whom  she  was  talking  and 
then  as  he  drew  nearer  would  hear  the  stealing 
away  of  little  feet,  the  startled  flutter  of 
wings. 

She  had  elfish  ways,  of  which  it  seemed 
impossible  to  cure  her.  Often  the  good  man, 
returning  from  some  late  visit  of  mercy  with 
his  lantern  and  his  stout  oak  cudgel,  would 
pause  and  listen  to  a  wandering  voice.  It  was 
never  near  enough  for  him  to  hear  the  words, 
and  the  voice  was  strange  to  him,  though  he 
knew  it  could  be  no  one  else.  Madame  Lavigne 
would  shrug  her  shoulders.  How  could  she 
help  it  f  It  was  not  for  her  to  cross  the  ' '  child, ' ' 
even  supposing  bolts  and  bars  likely  to  be  of 
any  use.  Father  Jean  gave  it  up  in  despair. 
Neither  was  it  for  him  either  to  be  too  often 
forbidding  and  lecturing.    Maybe  the  cunning 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  157 

tender  ways  had  wove  their  web  about  the  child- 
less old  gentleman's  heart,  making  him  also 
somewhat  afraid.  Perhaps  other  distractions! 
For  Madame  Lavigne  would  never  allow  her  to 
do  anything  but  the  lightest  of  work.  He  would 
teach  her  to  read.  So  quickly  she  learned  that 
it  seemed  to  Father  Jean  she  must  be  making 
believe  not  to  have  known  it  already.  But  he 
had  his  reward  in  watching  the  joy  with  which 
she  would  devour,  for  preference,  the  quaint 
printed  volumes  of  romance  and  history  that  he 
would  bring  home  to  her  from  his  rare  journey- 
ings  to  the  distant  town. 

It  was  when  she  was  about  thirteen  that  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  came  from  Paris.  Of 
course  they  were  not  real  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
Only  a  little  company  of  artists  seeking  new 
fields.  They  had  ' '  done '  *  the  coast  and  the  tim- 
bered houses  of  the  narrow  streets,  and  one  of 
them  had  suggested  exploring  the  solitary, 
unknown  inlands.  They  came  across  her  seated 
on  an  old  grey  stone  reading  from  an  ancient- 
looking  book,  and  she  had  risen  and  courtesied 
to  them.    She  was  never  afraid.    It  was  she  who 


158  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

excited  fear.  Often  she  would  look  after  the 
children  flying  from  her,  feeling  a  little  sad, 
but,  of  course,  it  could  not  be  helped.  She  was 
a  fairy.  She  would  have  done  them  no  harm, 
but  this  they  could  not  be  expected  to  under- 
stand. It  was  a  delightful  change;  meeting 
human  beings  who  neither  screamed  nor  hastily 
recited  their  paternosters,  but  who,  instead, 
returned  one's  smile.  They  asked  her  where 
she  lived,  and  she  showed  them.  They  were 
staying  at  Aven-a-Christ ;  and  one  of  the  ladies 
was  brave  enough  even  to  kiss  her.  Laughing 
and  talking  they  all  walked  down  the  hill 
together.  They  found  Madame  Lavigne  work- 
ing in  her  garden.  Madame  Lavigne  washed 
her  hands  of  all  responsibility.  It  was  for 
Suzanne  to  decide.  It  seemed  they  wanted  to 
make  a  picture  of  her,  sitting  on  the  grey  stone 
where  they  had  found  her.  It  was  surely  only 
kind  to  let  them ;  so  next  morning  she  was  there 
again  waiting  for  them.  They  gave  her  a  five- 
franc  piece.  Madame  Lavigne  was  doubtful  of 
handling  it,  but  Father  Jean  vouched  for  it  as 
being  good  Republican  money ;  and  as  the  days 
went   by   Madame    Lavigne 's    black    stocking 


MALVINA  OF  BEITTANY  159 

grew  heavier  and  heavier  as  she  hung  it  again 
each  night  in  the  chimney. 

It  was  the  lady  who  had  first  kissed  her  that 
discovered  who  she  was.  They  had  all  of  them 
felt  sure  from  the  beginning  that  she  was  a 
fairy,  and  that ' '  Suzanne ' '  could  not  be  her  real 
name.  They  found  it  in  the  "Heptameron  of 
Friar  Bonnet.  In  which  is  recorded  the  numer- 
ous adventures  of  the  valiant  and  puissant  King 
Ryence  of  Bretagne,"  which  one  of  them  had 
picked  up  on  the  Quai  aux  Fleurs  and  brought 
with  him.  It  told  all  about  the  White  Ladies, 
and  therein  she  was  described.  There  could  be 
no  mistaking  her;  the  fair  body  that  was  like 
to  a  willow  swayed  by  the  wind.  The  white  feet 
that  could  pass,  leaving  the  dew  unshaken  from 
the  grass.  The  eyes  blue  and  deep  as  moun- 
tain lakes.  The  golden  locks  of  which  the  sun 
was  jealous. 

It  was  all  quite  clear.  She  was  Malvina,  once 
favourite  to  Harbundia,  Queen  of  the  White 
Ladies  of  Brittany.  For  reasons — further  allu- 
sion to  which  politeness  forbade — she  had  been 
a  wanderer,  no  one  knowing  what  had  become 
of  her.    And  now  the  whim  had  taken  her  to 


160  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

reappear  as  a  little  Breton  peasant  girl,  near 
to  the  scene  of  her  past  glories.  They  knelt 
before  her,  offering  her  homage,  and  all  the 
ladies  kissed  her.  The  gentlemen  of  the  party 
thought  their  turn  would  follow.  But  it  never 
did.  It  was  not  their  own  shyness  that  stood 
in  their  way :  one  must  do  them  that  justice.  It 
was  as  if  some  youthful  queen,  exiled  and 
unknown  amongst  strangers,  had  been  sud- 
denly recognised  by  a  little  band  of  her  faith- 
ful subjects,  passing  by  chance  that  way.  So 
that,  instead  of  frolic  and  laughter,  as  had  been 
intended,  they  remained  standing  with  bared 
heads ;  and  no  one  liked  to  be  the  first  to  speak. 

She  put  them  at  their  ease — or  tried  to — with 
a  gracious  gesture.  But  enjoined  upon  them  all 
her  wish  for  secrecy.  And  so  dismissed  they 
seem  to  have  returned  to  the  village  a  marvel- 
lously sober  little  party,  experiencing  all  the 
sensations  of  honest  folk  admitted  to  their  first 
glimpse  of  high  society. 

They  came  again  next  year — at  least  a  few 
of  them — bringing  with  them  a  dress  more 
worthy  of  Malvina's  wearing.  It  was  as  near 
as  Paris  could  achieve  to  the  true  and  original 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  161 

costume  as  described  by  the  good  Friar  Bonnet, 
the  which  had  been  woven  in  a  single  night  by 
the  wizard  spider  Karai  out  of  moonlight. 
Malvina  accepted  it  with  gracious  thanks,  and 
was  evidently  pleased  to  find  herself  again  in 
fit  and  proper  clothes.  It  was  hidden  away  for 
rare  occasions  where  only  Malvina  knew.  But 
the  lady  who  had  first  kissed  her,  and  whose 
speciality  was  fairies,  craving  permission,  Mal- 
vina consented  to  wear  it  while  sitting  for  her 
portrait.  The  picture  one  may  still  see  in  the 
Palais  des  Beaux  Arts  at  Nantes  (the  Bretonne 
Room).  It  represents  her  standing  straight  as 
an  arrow,  a  lone  little  figure  in  the  centre  of  a 
treeless  moor.  The  painting  of  the  robe  is  said 
to  be  very  wonderful.  "Malvina  of  Brittany" 
is  the  inscription,  the  date  being  Nineteen  Hun- 
dred and  Thirteen. 

The  next  year  Malvina  was  no  longer  there. 
Madame  Lavigne,  folding  knotted  hands,  had 
muttered  her  last  paternoster.  Pere  Jean  had 
urged  the  convent.  But  for  the  first  time,  with 
him,  she  had  been  frankly  obstinate.  Some 
fancy  seemed  to  have  got  into  the  child's  head. 


162  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

Something  that  she  evidently  connected  with 
the  vast  treeless  moor  rising  southward  to 
where  the  ancient  menhir  of  King  Taramis 
crowned  its  summit.  The  good  man  yielded,  as 
usual.  For  the  present  there  were  Madame 
Lavigne's  small  savings.  Suzanne's  wants 
were  but  few.  The  rare  shopping  necessary 
Father  Jean  could  see  to  himself.  With  the 
coming  of  winter  he  would  broach  the  subject 
again,  and  then  be  quite  firm.  Just  these  were 
the  summer  nights  when  Suzanne  loved  to 
roam;  and  as  for  danger!  there  was  not  a  lad 
for  ten  leagues  round  who  would  not  have  run 
a  mile  to  avoid  passing,  even  in  daylight,  that 
cottage  standing  where  the  moor  dips  down  to 
the  sealands. 

But  one  surmises  that  even  a  fairy  may  feel 
lonesome.  Especially  a  banished  fairy,  hang- 
ing as  it  were  between  earth  and  air,  knowing 
mortal  maidens  kissed  and  courted,  while  one's 
own  companions  kept  way  from  one  in  hiding, 
Maybe  the  fancy  came  to  her  that,  after  all 
these  years,  they  might  forgive  her.  Still,  it 
was  their  meeting  place,  so  legend  ran,  espe- 
cially of  midsummer  nights.    Rare  it  was  now 


MALVINA  OF  BEITTANY  163 

for  human  eye  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  shim- 
mering robes,  but  high  on  the  treeless  moor  to 
the  music  of  the  Lady  of  the  Fountain,  one 
might  still  hear,  were  one  brave  enough  to  ven- 
ture, the  rhythm  of  their  dancing  feet.  If  she 
sought  them,  softly  calling,  might  they  not 
reveal  themselves  to  her,  make  room  for  her 
once  again  in  the  whirling  circle?  One  has  the 
idea  that  the  moonlight  frock  may  have  added 
to  her  hopes.  Philosophy  admits  that  feeling 
oneself  well  dressed  gives  confidence. 

If  all  of  them  had  not  disappeared — been 
kissed  three  times  upon  the  lips  by  mortal  man 
and  so  become  a  woman!  It  seems  to  have  been 
a  possibility  for  which  your  White  Lady  had 
to  be  prepared.  That  is,  if  she  chose  to  suffer 
it.  If  not,  it  was  unfortunate  for  the  too  daring 
mortal.  But  if  he  gained  favour  in  her  eyes ! 
That  he  was  brave,  his  wooing  proved.  If, 
added  thereto,  he  were  comely,  with  kind  strong 
ways,  and  eyes  that  drew  you?  History  proves 
that  such  dreams  must  have  come  even  to  White 
Ladies.  Maybe  more  especially  on  midsum- 
mer nights  when  the  moon  is  at  its  full.  It  was 
on  such  a  night  that  Sir  Gerylon  had  woke  Mai- 


164  MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY 

vina's  sister  Sighile  with  a  kiss.    A  true  White 
Lady  must  always  dare  to  face  her  fate. 

It  seems  to  have  befallen  Malvina.  Some 
told  Father  Jean  how  he  had  arrived  in  a 
chariot  drawn  by  winged  horses,  the  thunder  of 
his  passing  waking  many  in  the  sleeping  vil- 
lages beneath.  And  others  how  he  had  come  in 
form  of  a  great  bird.  Father  Jean  had  heard 
strange  sounds  himself,  and  certain  it  was  that 
Suzanne  had  disappeared. 

Father  Jean  heard  another  version  a  few 
weeks  later,  told  him  by  an  English  officer  of 
Engineers  who  had  ridden  from  the  nearest 
station  on  a  bicycle  and  who  arrived  hot  and 
ravenously  thirsty.  And  Father  Jean,  under 
promise  of  seeing  Suzanne  on  the  first  oppor- 
tunity, believed  it.  But  to  most  of  his  flock  it 
sounded  an  impossible  rigmarole,  told  for  the 
purpose  of  disguising  the  truth. 

So  ends  my  story— or  rather  the  story  I  have 
pieced  together  from  information  of  a  contra- 
dictory nature  received.  Whatever  you  make 
of  it;  whether  with  the  Doctor  you  explain  it 


MALVINA  OF  BRITTANY  165 

away;  or  whether  with  Professor  Littlecherry, 
LL.D.,  F.R.S.,  you  believe  the  world  not  alto- 
gether explored  and  mapped,  the  fact  remains 
that  Malvina  of  Brittany  has  passed  away.  To 
the  younger  Mrs.  Raffleton,  listening  on  the 
Sussex  Downs  to  dull,  distant  sounds  that  make 
her  heart  beat,  and  very  nervous  of  telegraph 
boys,  has  come  already  some  of  the  disadvan- 
tages attendant  on  her  new  rank  of  womanhood. 
And  yet  one  gathers,  looking  down  into  those 
strange  deep  eyes,  that  she  would  not  change 
anything  about  her,  even  if  now  she  could. 


HIS  EVENING  OUT 


His  Evening  Out 

THE  evidence  of  the  park-keeper,  David 
Bristow,  of  Gilder  Street,  Camden  Town, 
is  as  follows: 

I  was  on  duty  in  St.  James's  Park  on  Thurs- 
day evening,  my  sphere  extending  from  the 
Mall  to  the  northern  shore  of  the  ornamental 
water  east  of  the  suspension  bridge.  At  five- 
and-twenty  to  seven  I  took  up  a  position 
between  the  peninsula  and  the  bridge  to  await 
my  colleague.  He  ought  to  have  relieved  me 
at  half -past  six,  but  did  not  arrive  until  a  few 
minutes  before  seven,  owing,  so  he  explained, 
to  the  breaking  down  of  his  motor- 'bus — which 
may  have  been  true  or  may  not,  as  the  saying  is. 

I  had  just  come  to  a  halt,  when  my  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  lady.  I  am  unable  to  explain 
why  the  presence  of  a  lady  in  St.  James 's  Park 
should  have  seemed  in   any  way  worthy   of 

169 


170  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

notice  except  that,  for  certain  reasons,  she 
reminded  me  of  my  first  wife.  I  observed  that 
she  hesitated  between  one  of  the  pnblic  seats 
and  two  vacant  chairs  standing  by  themselves 
a  little  farther  to  the  east.  Eventually  she 
selected  one  of  the  chairs,  and,  having  cleaned 
it  with  an  evening  paper — the  birds  in  this  por- 
tion of  the  Park  being  extremely  prolific — sat 
down  upon  it.  There  was  plenty  of  room  upon 
the  public  seat  close  to  it,  except  for  some  chil- 
dren who  were  playing  touch;  and  in  conse- 
quence of  this  I  judged  her  to  be  a  person  of 
means. 

I  walked  to  a  point  from  where  I  could  com- 
mand the  southern  approaches  to  the  bridge, 
my  colleague  arriving  sometimes  by  way  of 
Birdcage  Walk  and  sometimes  by  way  of  the 
Horse  Guards'  Parade.  Not  seeing  any  signs 
of  him  in  the  direction  of  the  bridge,  I  turned 
back.  A  little  way  past  the  chair  where  the  lady 
was  sitting  I  met  Mr.  Parable.  I  know  Mr. 
Parable  quite  well  by  sight.  He  was  wearing 
the  usual  grey  suit  and  soft  felt  hat  with  which 
the  pictures  in  the  newspapers  have  made  us 
all  familiar.     I  judged  that  Mr.  Parable  had 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  171 

come  from  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  and  the 
next  morning  my  suspicions  were  confirmed  by 
reading  that  he  had  been  present  at  a  tea-party 
given  on  the  terrace  by  Mr.  Will  Crooks.  Mr. 
Parable  conveyed  to  me  the  suggestion  of  a  man 
absorbed  in  thought,  and  not  quite  aware  of 
what  he  was  doing ;  but  in  this,  of  course,  I  may 
have  been  mistaken.  He  paused  for  a  moment 
to  look  over  the  railings  at  the  pelican.  Mr. 
Parable  said  something  to  the  pelican  which  I 
was  not  near  enough  to  overhear ;  and  then,  still 
apparently  in  a  state  of  abstraction,  crossed  the 
path  and  seated  himself  on  the  chair  next  to 
that  occupied  by  the  young  lady. 

From  the  tree  against  which  I  was  standing 
I  was  able  to  watch  the  subsequent  proceedings 
unobserved.  The  lady  looked  at  Mr.  Parable 
and  then  turned  away  and  smiled  to  herself. 
It  was  a  peculiar  smile,  and,  again  in  some  way 
I  am  unable  to  explain,  reminded  me  of  my  first 
wife.  It  was  not  till  the  pelican  put  down  his 
other  leg  and  walked  away  that  Mr.  Parable, 
turning  his  gaze  westward,  became  aware  of 
the  lady's  presence. 

From    information    that    has    subsequently 


172  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

come  to  my  knowledge,  I  am  prepared  to  believe 
that  Mr.  Parable,  from  the  beginning,  really 
thought  the  lady  was  a  friend  of  his.  What  the 
lady  thought  is  a  matter  for  conjecture ;  I  can 
only  speak  of  the  facts.  Mr.  Parable  looked  at 
the  lady  once  or  twice.  Indeed,  one  might  say 
with  truth  that  he  kept  on  doing  it.  The  lady, 
it  must  be  admitted,  behaved  for  a  while  with 
extreme  propriety;  but  after  a  time,  as  I  felt 
must  happen,  their  eyes  met,  and  then  it  was  I 
heard  her  say : 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Parable.' ' 

She  accompanied  the  words  with  the  same 
peculiar  smile  to  which  I  have  already  alluded. 
The  exact  words  of  Mr.  Parable's  reply  I  can- 
not remember.  But  it  was  to  the  effect  that  he 
had  thought  from  the  first  that  he  had  known 
her  but  had  not  been  quite  sure. 

It  was  at  this  point  that,  thinking  I  saw  my 
colleague  approaching,  I  went  to  meet  him.  I 
found  I  was  mistaken,  and  slowly  retraced  my 
steps.  I  passed  Mr.  Parable  and  the  lady. 
They  were  talking  together  with  what  I  should 
describe  as  animation.  I  went  as  far  as  the 
southern  extremity  of  the  suspension  bridge, 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  173 

and  must  have  waited  there  quite  ten  minutes 
before  returning  eastward.  It  was  while  I  was 
passing  behind  them  on  the  grass,  partially 
screened  by  the  rhododendrons,  that  I  heard 
Mr.  Parable  say  to  the  lady: 

"Why  shouldn't  we  have  it  together !"  To 
which  the  lady  replied: 

1  «  But  what  about  Miss  Clebb  ? ' ' 

I  could  not  overhear  what  followed,  owing 
to  their  sinking  their  voices.  It  seemed  to  be 
an  argument.  It  ended  with  the  young  lady 
laughing  and  then  rising.  Mr.  Parable  also 
rose,  and  they  walked  off  together.  As  they 
passed  me  I  heard  the  lady  say: 

"I  wonder  if  there's  any  place  in  London 
where  you're  not  likely  to  be  recognised. ' ' 

Mr.  Parable,  who  gave  me  the  idea  of  being 
in  a  state  of  growing  excitement,  replied  quite 
loudly : 

"Oh,  let  'em!" 

I  was  following  behind  them  when  the  lady 
suddenly  stopped. 

"I  know!"  she  said.    "The  Popular  Cafe." 

The  park-keeper  said  he  was  convinced  he 


174  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

would  know  the  lady  again,  having  taken  par- 
ticular notice  of  her.  She  had  brown  eyes  and 
was  wearing  a  black  hat  supplemented  with 

poppies. 

*  *  *  #  * 

Arthur  Horton,  waiter  at  the  Popular  Cafe, 
states  as  follows: 

I  know  Mr.  John  Parable  by  sight.  Have 
often  heard  him  speak  at  public  meetings.  Am 
a  bit  of  a  Socialist  myself.  Remember  his  din- 
ing at  the  Popular  Cafe  on  the  evening  of 
Thursday.  Didn't  recognise  him  immediately 
on  his  entrance  for  two  reasons.  One  was  his 
hat,  and  the  other  was  his  girl.  I  took  it  from 
him  and  hung  it  up.  I  mean,  of  course,  the  hat. 
It  was  a  brand-new  bowler,  a  trifle  ikey  about 
the  brim.  Have  always  associated  him  with  a 
soft  grey  felt.  But  never  with  girls.  Females, 
yes,  to  any  extent.  But  this  was  the  real  article. 
You  know  what  I  mean — the  sort  of  girl  that 
you  turn  round  to  look  after.  It  was  she  who 
selected  the  table  in  the  corner  behind  the  door. 
Been  there  before,  I  should  say. 

I  should,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  business, 
have  addressed  Mr.   Parable   by  name,   such 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  175 

being  our  instructions  in  the  case  of  customers 
known  to  us.  But,  putting  the  hat  and  the  girl 
together,  I  decided  not  to.  Mr.  Parable  was 
all  for  our  three-and-six-penny  table  d'hote;  he 
evidently  not  wanting  to  think.  But  the  lady 
wouldn't  hear  of  it. 

"Bemember  Miss  01600,"  she  reminded  him. 

Of  course,  at  the  time  I  did  not  know  what 
was  meant.  She  ordered  thin  soup,  a  grilled 
sole,  and  cutlets  au  gratin.  It  certainly  couldn't 
have  been  the  dinner.  With  regard  to  the 
champagne,  he  would  have  his  own  way.  I 
picked  him  out  a  dry  '94,  that  you  might  have 
weaned  a  baby  on.  I  suppose  it  was  the  whole 
thing  combined. 

It  was  after  the  sole  that  I  heard  Mr.  Parable 
laugh.  I  could  hardly  credit  my  ears,  but  half- 
way through  the  cutlets  he  did  it  again. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  women.  There  is  the 
woman  who,  the  more  she  eats  and  drinks  the 
stodgier  she  gets,  and  the  woman  who  lights  up 
after  it.  I  suggested  a  peche  Melba  between 
them,  and  when  I  returned  with  it,  Mr.  Parable 
was  sitting  with  his  elbows  on  the  table  gazing 
across  at  her  with  an  expression  that  I  can  only 


176  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

describe  as  quite  human.  It  was  when  I 
brought  the  coffee  that  he  turned  to  me  and 
asked : 

"What's  doing?  Nothing  stuffy,"  he  added. 
"Is  there  an  Exhibition  anywhere — something 
in  the  open  air?" 

"You  are  forgetting  Miss  Clebb,"  the  lady 
reminded  him. 

"For  two  pins,"  said  Mr.  Parable,  "I  would 
get  up  at  the  meeting  and  tell  Miss  Clebb  what 
I  really  think  about  her." 

I  suggested  the  EarPs  Court  Exhibition,  lit- 
tle thinking  at  the  time  what  it  was  going  to 
lead  to;  but  the  lady  at  first  wouldn't  hear  of 
it,  and  the  party  at  the  next  table  calling  for 
their  bill  (they  had  asked  for  it  once  or  twice 
before,  when  I  came  to  think  of  it),  I  had  to  go 
across  to  them. 

When  I  got  back  the  argument  had  just  con- 
cluded, and  the  lady  was  holding  up  her  finger. 

I I  On  condition  that  we  leave  at  half -past  nine, 
and  that  you  go  straight  to  Caxton  Hall,"  she 
said. 

"We'll  see  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Parable,  and 
offered  me  half  a  crown. 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  177 

Tips  being  against  the  rules,  I  couldn't  take 
it.  Besides,  one  of  the  jumpers  had  his  eye 
on  me.  I  explained  to  him,  jocosely,  that  I  was 
doing  it  for  a  bet.  He  was  surprised  when  I 
handed  him  his  hat,  but,  the  lady  whispering 
to  him,  he  remembered  himself  in  time. 

As  they  went  out  together  I  heard  Mr.  Para- 
ble say  to  the  lady: 

"It's  funny  what  a  shocking  memory  I  have 
for  names. ' ' 

To  which  the  lady  replied : 

"You'll  think  it  funnier  still  to-morrow.' ' 
And  then  she  laughed. 

Mr.  Horton  thought  he  would  know  the  lady 
again.  He  puts  down  her  age  at  about  twenty- 
six,  describing  her — to  use  his  own  piquant 
expression — as  "a  bit  of  all  right."    She  had 

brown  eyes  and  a  taking  way  with  her. 

*  *  *  #  # 

Miss  Ida  Jenks,  in  charge  of  the  Eastern  Cig- 
arette Kiosk  at  the  Earl's  Court  Exhibition, 
gives  the  following  particulars : 

From  where  I  generally  stand  I  can  easily 
command  a  view  of  the  interior  of  the  Victoria 


178  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

Hall ;  that  is,  of  course,  to  say  when  the  doors 
are  open,  as  on  a  warm  night  is  usually  the 
case. 

On  the  evening  of  Thursday,  the  twenty- 
seventh,  it  was  fairly  well  occupied,  but  not  to 
any  great  extent.  One  couple  attracted  my 
attention  by  reason  of  the  gentleman's  erratic 
steering.  Had  he  been  my  partner  I  should 
have  suggested  a  polka,  the  tango  not  being  the 
sort  of  dance  that  can  be  picked  up  in  an  even- 
ing. What  I  mean  to  say  is,  that  he  struck  me 
as  being  more  willing  than  experienced.  Some 
of  the  bumps  she  got  would  have  made  me  cross ; 
but  we  all  have  our  fancies,  and,  so  far  as  I 
could  judge,  they  both  appeared  to  be  enjoying 
themselves.  It  was  after  the  "Hitchy  Koo" 
that  they  came  outside. 

The  seat  to  the  left  of  the  door  is  popular  by 
reason  of  its  being  partly  screened  by  bushes, 
but  by  leaning  forward  a  little  it  is  quite  pos- 
sible for  me  to  see  what  goes  on  there.  They 
were  the  first  couple  out,  having  had  a  bad  col- 
lision near  the  bandstand,  so  easily  secured  it. 
The  gentleman  was  laughing. 

There  was  something  about  him  from  the  first 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  179 

that  made  me  think  I  knew  him,  and  when  he 
took  off  his  hat  to  wipe  his  head  it  came  to  me 
all  of  a  sudden,  he  being  the  exact  image  of  his 
effigy  at  Madame  Tussaud's,  which,  by  a  cu- 
rious coincidence,  I  happened  to  have  visited 
with  a  friend  that  very  afternoon.  The  lady 
was  what  some  people  would  call  good-looking, 
and  others  mightn't. 

I  was  watching  them,  naturally  a  little  inter- 
ested. Mr.  Parable,  in  helping  the  lady  to 
adjust  her  cloak,  drew  her — it  may  have  been  by 
accident — towards  him;  and  then  it  was  that  a 
florid  gentleman  with  a  short  pipe  in  his  mouth 
stepped  forward  and  addressed  the  lady.  He 
raised  his  hat  and,  remarking  "Good  evening," 
added  that  he  hoped  she  was  "having  a  pleas- 
ant time."  His  tone,  I  should  explain,  was  sar- 
castic. 

The  young  woman,  whatever  else  may  be  said 
of  her,  struck  me  as  behaving  quite  correctly. 
Eeplying  to  his  salutation  with  a  cold  and  dis- 
tant bow,  she  rose,  and,  turning  to  Mr.  Parable, 
observed  that  she  thought  it  was  perhaps  time 
for  them  to  be  going. 

The  gentleman,  who  had  taken  his  pipe  from 


180  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

his  mouth,  said — again  in  a  sarcastic  tone — 
that  he  thought  so  too,  and  offered  the  lady  his 
arm. 

"I  don't  think  we  need  trouble  you,"  said 
Mr.  Parable,  and  stepped  between  them. 

To  describe  what  followed  I,  being  a  lady, 
am  hampered  for  words.  I  remember  seeing 
Mr.  Parable's  hat  go  up  into  the  air,  and  then 
the  next  moment  the  florid  gentleman's  head 
was  lying  on  my  counter  smothered  in  cigar- 
ettes. I  naturally  screamed  for  the  police,  but 
the  crowd  was  dead  against  me ;  and  it  was  only 
after  what  I  believe  in  technical  language  would 
be  termed  "the  fourth  round"  that  they 
appeared  upon  the  scene. 

The  last  I  saw  of  Mr.  Parable  he  was  shaking 
a  young  constable  who  had  lost  his  helmet, 
while  three  other  policemen  had  hold  of  him 
from  behind.  The  florid  gentleman's  hat  I 
found  on  the  floor  of  my  kiosk  and  returned  to 
him;  but  after  a  useless  attempt  to  get  it  on 
his  head,  he  disappeared  with  it  in  his  hand. 
The  lady  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Miss  Jenks  thinks  she  would  know  her  again. 
She  was  wearing  a  hat  trimmed  with  black  chif- 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  181 

fon  and  a  spray  of  poppies,  and  was  slightly 
freckled. 


Superintendent  S.  Wade,  in  answer  to  ques- 
tions put  him  by  our  representative,  vouch- 
safed the  following  replies : 

Yes.  I  was  in  charge  at  the  Vine  Street 
Police  Court  on  the  night  of  Thursday,  the 
twenty-seventh. 

No.  I  have  no  recollection  of  a  charge  of 
any  description  being  preferred  against  any 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Parable. 

Yes.  A  gentleman  was  brought  in  about  ten 
o'clock  charged  with  brawling  at  the  EarPs 
Court  Exhibition  and  assaulting  a  constable  in 
the  discharge  of  his  duty. 

The  gentleman  gave  the  name  of  Mr.  Archi- 
bald Quincey,  Harcourt  Buildings,  Temple. 

No.  The  gentleman  made  no  application 
respecting  bail,  electing  to  pass  the  night  in  the 
cells.  A  certain  amount  of  discretion  is  per- 
mitted to  us,  and  we  made  him  as  comfortable 
as  possible. 

Yes.    A  lady. 

No.    About  a  gentleman  who  had  got  himself 


182  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

into  trouble  at  the  Earl's  Court  Exhibition. 
She  mentioned  no  name. 

I  showed  her  the  charge  sheet.  She  thanked 
me  and  went  away. 

That  I  cannot  say.  I  can  only  tell  you  that 
at  nine-fifteen  on  Friday  morning  bail  was  ten- 
dered, and,  after  inquiries,  accepted  in  the  per- 
son of  Julius  Addison  Tupp,  of  the  Sunnybrook 
Steam  Laundry,  Twickenham. 

That  is  no  business  of  ours. 

The  accused,  who,  I  had  seen  to  it,  had  had 
a  cup  of  tea  and  a  little  toast  at  seven-thirty, 
left  in  company  with  Mr.  Tupp  soon  after  ten. 

Superintendent  Wade  admitted  he  had  known 
cases  where  accused  parties,  to  avoid  unpleas- 
antness, had  stated  their  names  to  be  other  than 
their  own,  but  declined  to  discuss  the  matter 
further. 

Superintendent  Wade,  while  expressing  his 
regret  that  he  had  no  further  time  to  bestow 
upon  our  representative,  thought  it  highly  prob- 
able that  he  would  know  the  lady  again  if  he 
saw  her. 

Without  professing  to  be  a  judge  of  such  mat- 
ters, Superintendent  Wade  thinks  she  might  be 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  183 

described  as  a  highly  intelligent  young  woman, 

and  of  exceptionally  prepossessing  appearance. 

***** 

From  Mr.  Julius  Tupp,  of  the  Sunnybrook 
Steam  Laundry,  Twickenham,  upon  whom  our 
representative  next  called,  we  have  been  unable 
to  obtain  much  assistance,  Mr.  Tupp  replying 
to  all  questions  put  to  him  by  the  one  formula, 
" Not  talking.'' 

Fortunately,  our  representative,  on  his  way 
out  through  the  drying  ground,  was  able  to 
obtain  a  brief  interview  with  Mrs.  Tupp. 

Mrs.  Tupp  remembers  admitting  a  young 
lady  to  the  house  on  the  morning  of  Friday,  the 
twenty-eighth,  when  she  opened  the  door  to  take 
in  the  milk.  The  lady,  Mrs.  Tupp  remembers, 
spoke  in  a  husky  voice,  the  result,  as  the  young 
lady  explained  with  a  pleasant  laugh,  of  having 
passed  the  night  wandering  about  Ham  Com- 
mon, she  having  been  misdirected  the  previous 
evening  by  a  fool  of  a  railway  porter,  and  not 
wishing  to  disturb  the  neighbourhood  by  wak- 
ing people  up  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
which,  in  Mrs.  Tupp's  opinion,  was  sensible  of 
her. 


184  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

Mrs.  Tupp  describes  the  young  lady  as  of 
agreeable  manners,  but  looking,  naturally,  a  bit 
washed  out.  The  lady  asked  for  Mr.  Tupp, 
explaining  that  a  friend  of  his  was  in  trouble, 
which  did  not  in  the  least  surprise  Mrs.  Tupp, 
she  herself  not  holding  with  Socialists  and  such 
like.  Mr.  Tupp,  on  being  informed,  dressed 
hastily  and  went  downstairs,  and  he  and  the 
young  lady  left  the  house  together.  Mr.  Tupp, 
on  being  questioned  as  to  the  name  of  his 
friend,  had  called  up  that  it  was  no  one  Mrs. 
Tupp  would  know,  a  Mr.  Quince — it  may  have 
been  Quincey. 

Mrs.  Tupp  is  aware  that  Mr.  Parable  is  also 
a  Socialist,  and  is  acquainted  with  the  say- 
ing about  thieves  hanging  together.  But  has 
worked  for  Mr.  Parable  for  years  and  has 
always  found  him  a  most  satisfactory  client; 
and,  Mr.  Tupp  appearing  at  this  point,  our  rep- 
resentative thanked  Mrs.  Tupp  for  her  infor- 
mation and  took  his  departure. 

*Jg.  Jg.  JgL.  Jfc 

w  3IF  w  w 

Mr.  Horatius  Condor,  Junior,  who  consented 
to  partake  of  luncheon  in  company  with  our  rep- 
resentative at  the  Holborn  Restaurant,  was  at 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  185 

first  disinclined  to  be  of  much  assistance,  but 
eventually  supplied  our  representative  with  the 
following  information : 

My  relationship  to  Mr.  Archibald  Quincey, 
Harcourt  Buildings,  Temple,  is  perhaps  a  little 
difficult  to  define. 

How  he  himself  regards  me  T  am  never  quite 
sure.  There  will  be  days  together  when  we  will 
be  quite  friendly  like,  and  at  other  times  he  will 
be  that  offhanded  and  peremptory  you  might 
think  I  was  his  blooming  office  boy. 

On  Friday  morning,  the  twenty-eighth,  I 
didn't  get  to  Harcourt  Buildings  at  the  usual 
time,  knowing  that  Mr.  Quincey  would  not  be 
there  himself,  he  having  arranged  to  interview 
Mr.  Parable  for  the  Daily  Chronicle  at  ten 
o'clock.  I  allowed  him  half  an  hour,  to  be  quite 
safe,  and  he  came  in  at  a  quarter  past  eleven. 

He  took  no  notice  of  me.  For  about  ten  min- 
utes— it  may  have  been  less — he  walked  up  and 
down  the  room,  cursing  and  swearing  and  kick- 
ing the  furniture  about.  He  landed  an  occa- 
sional walnut  table  in  the  middle  of  my  shins, 
upon  which  I  took  the  opportunity  of  wishing 


186  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

him  "Good  morning,' '  and  he  sort  of  woke  up, 
as  yon  might  say. 

"How  did  the  interview  go  off:?"  I  says. 
"Got  anything  interesting ?" 

i '  Yes, ' '  he  says ; '  '  quite  interesting.  Oh,  yes, 
decidedly  interesting. ' ' 

He  was  holding  himself  in,  if  you  understand, 
speaking  with  horrible  slowness  and  delibera- 
tion. 

"D'you  know  where  he  was  last  night!"  he 
asks  me. 

"Yes,"  I  says;  "Caxton  Hall,  wasn't  it!— 
meeting  to  demand  the  release  of  Miss  Clebb." 

He  leans  across  the  table  till  his  face  was 
within  a  few  inches  of  mine. 

"Guess  again,"  he  says. 

I  wasn't  doing  any  guessing.  He  had  hurt 
me  with  the  walnut  table,  and  I  was  feeling  a 
bit  short-tempered. 

"  Oh !  don 't  make  a  game  of  it, "  I  says.  "  It  'S» 
too  early  in  the  morning. ' ' 

"At  the  Earl's  Court  Exhibition,"  he  says; 
"dancing  the  tango  with  a  lady  that  he  picked 
up  in  St.  James's  Park." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "why  not?    He  don't  often 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  187 

get  much  fun."  I  thought  it  best  to  treat  it 
lightly. 

He  takes  no  notice  of  my  observation. 

"A  rival  comes  upon  the  scene,"  he  contin- 
ues— "a  fat-headed  ass,  according  to  my  infor- 
mation— and  they  have  a  stand-up  fight.  He 
gets  run  in  and  spends  the  night  in  a  Vine 
Street  police  cell. ' ' 

I  suppose  I  was  grinning  without  knowing  it. 

' ' Funny,  ain't  it?"  he  says. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "it  has  its  humourous  side, 
hasn  't  it  f    What  '11  he  get !  " 

"I  am  not  worrying  about  what  he  is  going 
to  get,"  he  answers  back.  "I  am  worrying 
about  what  I  am  going  to  get. ' ' 

I  thought  he  had  gone  dotty. 

"What's  it  got  to  do  with  you?"  I  says. 

"If  old  Wotherspoon  is  in  a  good  humour," 
he  continues,  "and  the  constable's  head  has 
gone  down  a  bit  between  now  and  Wednesday, 
I  may  get  off  with  forty  shillings  and  a  public 
reprimand. 

"On  the  other  hand,"  he  goes  on — he  was 
working  himself  into  a  sort  of  fit — "if  the  con- 
stable's head  goes  on  swelling,  and  old  Wother- 


188  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

spoon 's  liver  gets  worse,  I've  got  to  be  prepared, 
for  a  month,  without  the  option.  That  is,  if  I 
am  fool  enough " 

He  had  left  both  the  doors  open,  which  in  the 
daytime  we  generally  do,  our  chambers  being 
at  the  top.  Miss  Dorton — that's  Mr.  Parable's 
secretary — barges  into  the  room.  She  didn't 
seem  to  notice  me.  She  staggers  to  a  chair  and 
bursts  into  tears. 

' ' He's  gone,"  she  says;  "he's  taken  cook 
with  him  and  gone." 

"Gone!"  says  the  guv 'nor.  "Where's  he 
gone?" 

"To  Fingest,"  she  says  through  her  sobs — 
"to  the  cottage.  Miss  Bulstrode  came  in  just 
after  you  had  left,"  she  says.  "He  wants  to 
get  away  from  everyone  and  have  a  few  days' 
quiet.  And  then  he  is  coming  back,  and  he  is 
going  to  do  it  himself. ' ' 

"Do  what?"  says  the  guv 'nor,  irritable  like. 

"Fourteen  days,"  she  wails.  "It'll  kill 
him. ' ' 

"But  the  case  doesn't  come  on  till  Wednes- 
day," says  the  guv 'nor.  "How  do  you  know 
it's  going  to  be  fourteen  days?" 


HIS  EVENINO  OUT  189 

1 ' Miss  Bulstrode,"  she  says,  " she's  seen  the 
magistrate.  He  says  he  always  gives  fourteen 
days  in  cases  of  unprovoked  assault." 

"But  it  wasn't  unprovoked, ' '  says  the  guv'- 
nor.  i  '  The  other  man  began  it  by  knocking  off 
his  hat.    It  was  self-defence.' ' 

"She  put  that  to  him,"  she  says,  "and  he 
agreed  that  that  would  alter  his  view  of  the 
case.  But,  you  see,"  she  continues,  "we  can't 
find  the  other  man.  He  isn't  likely  to  come  for- 
ward of  his  own  accord. ' ' 

"The  girl  must  know,"  says  the  guv 'nor — 
"this  girl  he  picks  up  in  St.  James's  Park,  and 
goes  dancing  with.  The  man  must  have  been 
some  friend  of  hers. ' ' 

"But  we  can't  find  her  either,"  she  says. 
"He  doesn't  even  know  her  name — he  can't 
remember  it. ' ' 

"You  will  do  it,  won't  you?"  she  says. 

"Do  what?"  says  the  guv 'nor  again. 

"The  fourteen  days,"  she  says. 

"But  I  thought  you  said  he  was  going  to  do 
it  himself!"  he  says. 

"But  he  mustn't,"  she  says.  "Miss  Bul- 
strode  is  coming  round  to  see  you.    Think  of 


190  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

it!  Think  of  the  headlines  in  the  papers,"  she 
says.  "  Think  of  the  Fabian  Society.  Think 
of  the  Suffrage  cause.    We  mustn't  let  him." 

"What  about  me!"  says  the  guv 'nor. 
" Doesn't  anybody  care  for  me?" 

"You  don't  matter,"  she  says.  "Besides," 
she  says,  "with  your  influence  you'll  be  able  to 
keep  it  out  of  the  papers.  If  it  comes  out  that 
it  was  Mr.  Parable,  nothing  on  earth  will  be 
able  to." 

The  guv 'nor  was  almost  as  much  excited  by 
this  time  as  she  was. 

"I'll  see  the  Fabian  Society  and  the  Women's 
Vote  and  the  Home  for  Lost  Cats  at  Battersea 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  blessed  bag  of 
tricks " 

I'd  been  thinking  to  myself,  and  had  just 
worked  it  out. 

"What's  he  want  to  take  his  cook  down  with 
him  for?"  I  says. 

"To  cook  for  him, ' '  says  the  guv  'nor.  ' '  What 
d'you  generally  want  a  cook  for?" 

"Eats!"  I  says.  "Does  he  usually  take  his 
cook  with  him?" 

1 '  No, ' '  answered  Miss  Dorton.    ' 6  Now  I  come 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  191 

to  think  of  it,  he  has  always  hitherto  put  up 
with  Mrs.  Meadows.' ' 

"You  will  find  the  lady  down  at  Fingest,"  I 
says,  "sitting  opposite  him  and  enjoying  a 
recherche  dinner  for  two. ' ' 

The  guv 'nor  slaps  me  on  the  back,  and  lifts 
Miss  Dorton  out  of  her  chair. 

"You  get  on  back,"  he  says,  "and  telephone 
to  Miss  Bulstrode.  I'll  be  round  at  half -past 
twelve. ' ' 

Miss  Dorton  went  out  in  a  dazed  sort  of  con- 
dition, and  the  guv 'nor  gives  me  a  sovereign, 
and  tells  me  I  can  have  the  rest  of  the  day  to 
myself. 

Mr.  Condor,  Junior,  considers  that  what  hap- 
pened subsequently  goes  to  prove  that  he  was 
right  more  than  it  proves  that  he  was  wrong. 

Mr.  Condor,  Junior,  also  promised  to  send  us 
a  photograph  of  himself  for  reproduction,  but, 
unfortunately,  up  to  the  time  of  going  to  press 
it  had  not  arrived. 

#  #  *  *  # 

From  Mrs.  Meadows,  widow  of  the  late  Cor- 
poral John  Meadows,  V.C.,  Turberville,  Bucks, 


192  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

the  following  further  particulars  were  obtained 
by  our  local  representative : 

I  have  done  for  Mr.  Parable  now  for  some 
years  past,  my  cottage  being  only  a  mile  off, 
which  makes  it  easy  for  me  to  look  after  him. 

Mr.  Parable  likes  the  place  to  be  always 
ready  so  that  he  can  drop  in  when  he  chooses, 
he  sometimes  giving  me  warning  and  some- 
times not.  It  was  about  the  end  of  last  month 
— on  a  Friday,  if  I  remember  rightly — that  he 
suddenly  turned  up. 

As  a  rule,  he  walks  from  Henley  station,  but 
on  this  occasion  he  arrived  in  a  fly,  he  having 
a  young  woman  with  him,  and  she  having  a 
bag — his  cook,  as  he  explained  to  me.  As  a  rule, 
I  do  everything  for  Mr.  Parable,  sleeping  in 
the  cottage  when  he  is  there;  but  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  was  glad  to  see  her.  I  never  was  much 
of  a  cook  myself,  as  my  poor  dead  husband  has 
remarked  on  more  than  one  occasion,  and  I 
don't  pretend  to  be.  Mr.  Parable  added,  apol- 
ogetic like,  that  he  had  been  suffering  lately 
from  indigestion. 

"I  am  only  too  pleased  to  see  her,"  I  says. 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  193 

"  There  are  the  two  beds  in  my  room,  and  we 
shan't  quarrel."  She  was  quite  a  sensible 
young  woman,  as  I  had  judged  from  the  first 
look  at  her,  though  suffering  at  the  time  from 
a  cold.  She  hires  a  bicycle  from  Emma  Tidd, 
who  only  uses  it  on  a  Sunday,  and,  taking  a 
market  basket,  off  she  starts  for  Henley,  Mr. 
Parable  saying  he  would  go  with  her  to  show 
her  the  way. 

They  were  gone  a  goodish  time,  which,  seeing 
it's  eight  miles,  didn't  so  much  surprise  me ;  and 
when  they  got  back  we  all  three  had  dinner 
together,  Mr.  Parable  arguing  that  it  made  for 
what  he  called  "labour  saving."  Afterward  I 
cleared  away,  leaving  them  talking  together; 
and  later  on  they  had  a  walk  round  the  garden, 
it  being  a  moonlight  night,  but  a  bit  too  cold  for 
my  fancy. 

In  the  morning  I  had  a  chat  with  her  before 
he  was  down.    She  seemed  a  bit  worried. 

"I  hope  people  won't  get  talking,"  she  says. 
' '  He  would  insist  on  my  coming. ' ' 

"Well,"  I  says,  "surely  a  gent  can  bring  his 
cook  along  with  him  to  cook  for  him.  And  as 
for  people  talking,  what  I  always  say  is,  one 


194  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

may  just  as  well  give  them  something  to  talk 
about  and  save  them  the  trouble  of  making  it 
up." 

' '  If  only  I  was  a  plain,  middle-aged  woman, ' ' 
she  says,  "it  would  be  all  right.' ' 

"Perhaps  you  will  be,  all  in  good  time,"  I 
says,  but,  of  course,  I  could  see  what  she  was 
driving  at.  A  nice,  clean,  pleasant-faced  young 
woman  she  was,  and  not  of  the  ordinary  class. 
" Meanwhile, "  I  says,  "if  you  don't  mind  taking 
a  bit  of  motherly  advice,  you  might  remember 
that  your  place  is  the  kitchen,  and  his  the  par- 
lour. He's  a  dear  good  man,  I  know,  but  human 
nature  is  human  nature,  and  it's  no  good  pre- 
tending it  isn't." 

She  and  I  had  our  breakfast  together  before 
he  was  up,  so  that  when  he  came  down  he  had  to 
have  his  alone,  but  afterward  she  comes  into 
the  kitchen  and  closes  the  door. 

"He  wants  to  show  me  the  way  to  High 
Wycombe,"  she  says.  "He  will  have  it  there 
are  better  shops  at  Wycombe.  What  ought  I 
to  do?" 

My  experience  is  that  advising  folks  to  do 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  195 

what  they  don't  want  to  do  isn't  the  way  to 
do  it. 

"What  d'you  think  yourself?"  I  asked  her. 

"I  feel  like  going  with  him,"  she  says,  "and 
making  the  most  of  every  mile." 

And  then  she  began  to  cry. 

i  l  What 's  the  harm ! ' '  she  says.  ' i  I  have  heard 
him  from  a  dozen  platforms  ridiculing  class 
distinction.  Besides,"  she  says,  "my  people 
have  been  farmers  for  generations.  What  was 
Miss  Bulstrode's  father  but  a  grocer!  He  ran 
a  hundred  shops  instead  of  one.  What  differ- 
ence does  that  make?" 

<  <  When  did  it  all  begin  ? "  I  says.  <  <  When  did 
he  first  take  notice  of  you  like  ? ' ' 

"The  day  before  yesterday,"  she  answers. 
"He  had  never  seen  me  before,"  she  says.  "I 
was  just  'Cook' — something  in  a  cap  and  apron 
that  he  passed  occasionally  on  the  stairs.  On 
Thursday  he  saw  me  in  my  best  clothes,  and 
fell  in  love  with  me.  He  doesn't  know  it  him- 
self, poor  dear,  not  yet,  but  that's  what  he's 
done." 

Well,  I  couldn't  contradict  her,  not  after  the 


196  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

way  I  had  seen  him  looking  at  her  across  the 
table. 

"What  are  your  feelings  towards  him,"  I 
says,  "to  be  quite  honest?  He's  rather  a  good 
catch  for  a  young  person  in  your  position." 

' '  That 's  my  trouble, ' '  she  says.  ' '  I  can 't  help 
thinking  of  that.  And  then  to  be  'Mrs.  John 
Parable'!  That's  enough  to  turn  a  woman's 
head." 

"He'd  be  a  bit  difficult  to  live  with,"  I 
says. 

"Geniuses  always  are,"  she  says;  "it's  easy 
enough  if  you  just  think  of  them  as  children. 
He'd  be  a  bit  fractious  at  times,  that's  all. 
Underneath,  he's  just  the  kindest,  dearest " 

"Oh,  you  take  your  basket  and  go  to  High 
Wycombe,"  I  says.    "He  might  do  worse." 

I  wasn't  expecting  them  back  soon,  and  they 
didn't  come  back  soon.  In  the  afternoon  a 
motor  stops  at  the  gate,  and  out  of  it  steps  Miss 
Bulstrode,  Miss  Dorton — that's  the  young  lady 
that  writes  for  him — and  Mr.  Quincey.  I  told 
them  I  couldn't  say  when  he'd  be  back,  and  they 
said  it  didn't  matter,  they  just  happening  to  be 
passing. 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  197 

"Did  anybody  call  on  him  yesterday !"  asks 
Miss  Bulstrode,  careless  like — "a  lady?' ' 

"No,"  I  says;  "you  are  the  first  as  yet." 

"  He 's  brought  his  cook  down  with  him,  hasn't 
he?"  says  Mr.  Quincey. 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "and  a  very  good  cook  too," 
which  was  the  truth. 

"I'd  like  just  to  speak  a  few  words  with 
her,"  says  Miss  Bulstrode. 

"Sorry,  m'am,"  I  says,  "but  she's  out  at 
present;  she's  gone  to  Wycombe." 

"Gone  to  Wycombe!"  they  all  says  together. 

"  To  market,"  I  says.  "It's  a  little  farther, 
but,  of  course,  it  stands  to  reason  the  shops 
there  are  better. ' ' 

They  looked  at  one  another. 

"That  settles  it,"  says  Mr.  Quincey.  "Deli- 
cacies worthy  to  be  set  before  her  not  available 
nearer  than  Wycombe,  but  must  be  had.  There's 
going  to  be  a  pleasant  little  dinner  here  to- 
night." 

"The  hussy!"  says  Miss  Bulstrode,  under 
her  breath. 

They  whispered  together  for  a  moment,  then 
they  turns  to  me. 


198  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

• i Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Meadows,"  says  Mr. 
Quincey.  "You  needn't  say  we  called.  He 
wanted  to  be  alone,  and  it  might  vex  him. ' ' 

I  said  I  wouldn't,  and  I  didn't.  They  climbed 
back  into  the  motor  and  went  off. 

Before  dinner  I  had  call  to  go  into  the  wood- 
shed. I  heard  a  scuttling  as  I  opened  the  door. 
If  I  am  not  mistaken,  Miss  Dorton  was  hiding 
in  the  corner  where  we  keep  the  coke.  I  didn't 
see  any  good  in  making  a  fuss,  so  I  left  her 
there.  When  I  got  back  to  the  kitchen,  cook 
asked  me  if  we'd  got  any  parsley. 

"You'll  find  a  bit  in  the  front,"  I  says,  "to 
the  left  of  the  gate,"  and  she  went  out.  She 
came  back  looking  scared. 

"Anybody  keep  goats  round  here?"  she 
asked  me. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,  nearer  than  Ibstone 
Common,"  I  says. 

"I  could  have  sworn  I  saw  a  goat's  face  look- 
ing at  me  out  of  the  gooseberry  bushes  while  I 
was  picking  the  parsley,"  she  says.  "It  had  a 
beard." 

"It's  the  half  light,"  I  says.  "One  can 
imagine  anything." 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  199 

"I  do  hope  I'm  not  getting  nervy,"  she  says. 

I  thought  I'd  have  another  look  around,  and 
made  the  excuse  that  I  wanted  a  pail  of  water. 
I  was  stooping  over  the  well,  which  is  just  under 
the  mulberry  tree,  when  something  fell  close  to 
me  and  lodged  upon  the  bricks.  It  was  a  hair- 
pin. I  fixed  the  cover  carefully  upon  the  well 
in  case  of  accident,  and  when  I  got  in  I  went 
round  myself  and  was  careful  to  see  that  all 
the  curtains  were  drawn. 

Just  before  we  three  sat  down  to  dinner  again 
I  took  cook  aside. 

"I  shouldn't  go  for  any  stroll  in  the  garden 
to-night,"  I  says.  "People  from  the  village 
may  be  about,  and  we  don't  want  them  gossip- 
ing."   And  she  thanked  me. 

Next  night  they  were  there  again.  I  thought 
I  wouldn't  spoil  the  dinner,  but  mention  it  after- 
ward. I  saw  to  it  again  that  the  curtains  were 
drawn,  and  slipped  the  catch  of  both  the  doors. 
And  just  as  well  that  I  did. 

I  had  always  heard  that  Mr.  Parable  was  an 
amusing  speaker,  but  on  previous  visits  had  not 
myself  noticed  it.  But  this  time  he  seemed  ten 
years  younger  than  I  had  ever  known  him  be- 


200  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

fore ;  and  during  dinner,  while  we  were  talking 
and  laughing  quite  merry  like,  I  had  the  feeling 
more  than  once  that  people  were  meandering 
about  outside.  I  had  just  finished  clearing 
away,  and  cook  was  making  the  coffee,  when 
there  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 

' '  Who 's  that  ? ' '  says  Mr.  Parable.  '  *  I  am  not 
at  home  to  anyone." 

"I'll  see,"  I  says.  And  on  my  way  I  slipped 
into  the  kitchen. 

"Coffee  for  one,  cook,"  I  says,  and  she  under- 
stood. Her  cap  and  apron  were  hanging  behind 
the  door.  I  flung  them  across  to  her,  and  she 
caught  them ;  and  then  I  opened  the  front  door. 

They  pushed  past  me  without  speaking,  and 
went  straight  into  the  parlour.  And  they  didn't 
waste  many  words  on  him  either. 

"Where  is  she?"  asked  Miss  Bulstrode. 

"Where's  who?"  says  Mr.  Parable. 

"Don't  lie  about  it,"  said  Miss  Bulstrode, 
making  no  effort  to  control  herself.  "The  hussy 
you've  been  dining  with?" 

"Do  you  mean  Mrs.  Meadows?"  says  Mr. 
Parable. 

I  thought  she  was  going  to  shake  him. 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  201 

" Where  have  you  hidden  her?"  she  says. 

It  was  at  that  moment  cook  entered  with  the 
coffee. 

If  they  had  taken  the  trouble  to  look  at  her 
they  might  have  had  an  idea.  The  tray  was 
trembling  in  her  hands,  and  in  her  haste  and 
excitement  she  had  put  on  her  cap  the  wrong 
way  round.  But  she  kept  control  of  her  voice, 
and  asked  if  she  should  bring  some  more  coffee. 

"Ah,  yes!  You'd  all  like  some  coffee, 
wouldn't  you?"  says  Mr.  Parable.  Miss  Bul- 
strode  did  not  reply,  but  Mr.  Quincey  said  he 
was  cold  and  would  like  it.  It  was  a  nasty  night, 
with  a  thin  rain. 

*  •  Thank  you,  sir, ' '  says  cook,  and  we  went  out 
together. 

Cottages  are  only  cottages,  and  if  people  in 
the  parlour  persist  in  talking  loudly,  people  in 
the  kitchen  can't  very  well  help  overhearing. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  "four- 
teen days,"  which  Mr.  Parable  said  he  was 
going  to  do  himself,  and  which  Miss  Dorton 
said  he  mustn't,  because,  if  he  did,  it  would  be 
a  victory  for  the  enemies  of  humanity.  Mr. 
Parable    said    something   about    "humanity," 


202  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

which  I  didn't  rightly  hear,  but,  whatever  it 
was,  it  started  Miss  Dorton  crying;  and  Miss 
Bulstrode  called  Mr.  Parable  a  "  blind  Sam- 
son,' '  who  had  had  his  hair  cut  by  a  designing 
minx  who  had  been  hired  to  do  it. 

It  was  all  French  to  me,  but  cook  was  drink- 
ing in  every  word,  and  when  she  returned  from 
taking  them  in  their  coffee  she  made  no  bones 
about  it,  but  took  up  her  place  at  the  door  with 
her  ear  to  the  keyhole. 

It  was  Mr.  Quincey  who  got  them  all  quiet, 
and  then  he  began  to  explain  things.  It  seemed 
that  if  they  could  only  find  a  certain  gentleman 
and  persuade  him  to  come  forward  and  acknowl- 
edge that  he  began  a  row,  that  then  all  would  be 
well.  Mr.  Quincey  would  be  fined  forty  shillings, 
and  Mr.  Parable's  name  would  never  appear. 
Failing  that,  Mr.  Parable,  according  to  Mr. 
Quincey,  could  do  his  fourteen  days  himself. 

"I've  told  you  once,"  says  Mr.  Parable,  "and 
I  tell  you  again,  that  I  don't  know  the  man's 
name,  and  can't  give  it  you." 

"We  are  not  asking  you  to,"  says  Mr.  Quin- 
cey. "You  give  us  the  name  of  your  tango 
partner,  and  we'll  do  the  rest." 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  203 

I  could  see  cook's  face;  I  had  got  a  bit  in- 
terested myself,  and  we  were  both  close  to  the 
door.    She  hardly  seemed  to  be  breathing. 

"I  am  sorry/ '  says  Mr.  Parable,  speaking 
very  deliberate-like,  "but  I  am  not  going  to 
have  her  name  dragged  into  this  business." 

"It  wouldn't  be,"  says  Mr.  Quincey.  "All 
we  want  to  get  out  of  her  is  the  name  and  ad- 
dress of  the  gentleman  who  was  so  anxious  to 
see  her  home.,, 

< '  Who  was  he  ? ' '  says  Miss  Bulstrode.  ' '  Her 
husband  !" 

"No,"  says  Mr.  Parable;  "he  wasn't." 

"Then  who  was  he?"  says  Miss  Bulstrode. 
"He  must  have  been  something  to  her — 
fiance?" 

"I  am  going  to  do  the  fourteen  days  myself," 
says  Mr.  Parable.  "I  shall  come  out  all  the 
fresher  after  a  fortnight's  complete  rest  and 
change. ' ' 

Cook  leaves  the  door  with  a  smile  on  her  face 
that  made  her  look  quite  beautiful,  and,  taking 
some  paper  from  the  dresser  drawer,  began  to 
write  a  letter. 

They  went  on  talking  in  the  other  room  for 


204  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

another  ten  minutes,  and  then  Mr.  Parable  lets 
them  out  himself,  and  goes  a  little  way  with 
them.  When  he  came  back  we  could  hear  him 
walking  up  and  down  the  other  room. 

She  had  written  and  stamped  the  envelope; 
it  was  lying  on  the  table. 

"  '  Joseph  Onions,  Esq.,'  "  I  says,  reading 
the  address.  "  '  Auctioneer  and  House  Agent, 
Broadway,  Hammersmith. '  Is  that  the  young 
man!" 

"That  is  the  young  man,"  she  says,  folding 
her  letter  and  putting  it  in  the  envelope. 

"And  was  he  your  fiance ?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  she  says.  "But  he  will  be  if  he  does 
what  I'm  telling  him  to  do." 

"And  what  about  Mr.  Parable?"  I  says. 

"A  little  joke  that  will  amuse  him  later  on," 
she  says,  slipping  a  cloak  on  her  shoulders. 
1 i  How  once  he  nearly  married  his  cook. 9  y 

"I  shan't  be  a  minute,"  she  says.  And,  with 
the  letter  in  her  hand  she  slips  out. 

Mrs.  Meadows,  we  understand,  has  expressed 
indignation  at  our  publication  of  this  interview, 
she  being  under  the  impression  that  she  was 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  205 

simply  having  a  friendly  gossip  with  a  neigh- 
bour. Our  representative,  however,  is  sure  he 
explained  to  Mrs.  Meadows  that  his  visit  was 
official;  and,  in  any  case,  our  duty  to  the  pub- 
lic must  be  held  to  exonerate  us  from  all  blame 
in  the  matter. 

•JF  tP  W  w  w 

Mr.  Joseph  Onions,  of  the  Broadway,  Ham- 
mersmith, auctioneer  and  house  agent,  ex- 
pressed himself  to  our  representative  as  most 
surprised  at  the  turn  that  events  had  subse- 
quently taken.  The  letter  that  Mr.  Onions 
received  from  Miss  Comfort  Price  was  explicit 
and  definite.  It  was  to  the  effect  that  if  he 
would  call  upon  a  certain  Mr.  Quincey,  of  Har- 
court  Buildings,  Temple,  and  acknowledge  that 
it  was  he  who  began  the  row  at  the  Earl's  Court 
Exhibition  on  the  evening  of  the  twenty- 
seventh,  that  then  the  engagement  between  him- 
self and  Miss  Price,  hitherto  unacknowledged 
by  the  lady,  might  be  regarded  as  a  fact. 

Mr.  Onions,  who  describes  himself  as  essen- 
tially a  business  man,  decided  before  comply- 
ing with  Miss  Price's  request  to  take  a  few 
preliminary  steps.    As  the  result  of  judiciously 


206  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

conducted  inquiries,  first  at  the  Vine  Street 
Police  Court,  and  secondly  at  Twickenham, 
Mr.  Onions  arrived  later  in  the  day  at  Mr. 
Quincey 's  chambers,  with,  to  use  his  own  ex- 
pression, all  the  cards  in  his  hand.  It  was  Mr. 
Quincey  who,  professing  himself  unable  to  com- 
ply with  Mr.  Onions 's  suggestion,  arranged  the 
interview  with  Miss  Bulstrode.  And  it  was 
Miss  Bulstrode  herself  who,  on  condition  that 
Mr.  Onions  added  to  the  undertaking  the  fur- 
ther condition  that  he  would  marry  Miss  Price 
before  the  end  of  the  month,  offered  to  make  it 
two  hundred.  It  was  in  their  joint  interest — 
Mr.  Onions  regarding  himself  and  Miss  Price 
as  now  one — that  Mr.  Onions  suggested  her 
making  it  three,  using  such  arguments  as, 
under  the  circumstances,  naturally  occurred  to 
him — as,  for  example,  the  damage  caused  to  the 
lady's  reputation  by  the  whole  proceedings, 
culminating  in  a  night  spent  by  the  lady,  accord- 
ing to  her  own  account,  on  Ham  Common.  That 
the  price  demanded  was  reasonable  Mr.  Onions 
considers  as  proved  by  Miss  Bulstrode 's  even- 
tual acceptance  of  his  terms.  That,  having  got 
out  of  him  all  that  he  wanted,  Mr.  Quincey 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  207 

should  have  "considered  it  his  duty"  to  com- 
municate the  entire  details  of  the  transaction  to 
Miss  Price,  through  the  medium  of  Mr. 
Andrews,  thinking  it  "as  well  she  should  know 
the  character  of  the  man  she  proposed  to 
marry, ' '  Mr.  Onions  considers  a  gross  breach  of 
etiquette  as  between  gentlemen;  and  having 
regard  to  Miss  Price's  after  behaviour,  Mr. 
Onions  can  only  say  that  she  is  not  the  girl 
he  took  her  for. 

***** 

Mr.  Aaron  Andrews,  on  whom  our  represen- 
tative called,  was  desirous  at  first  of  not  being 
drawn  into  the  matter;  but  on  our  representa- 
tive explaining  to  him  that  our  only  desire  was 
to  contradict  false  rumours  likely  to  be  harm- 
ful to  Mr.  Parable's  reputation,  Mr.  Andrews 
saw  the  necessity  of  putting  our  representative 
in  possession  of  the  truth. 

She  came  back  on  Tuesday  afternoon, 
explained  Mr.  Andrews,  and  I  had  a  talk  with 
her. 

"It  is  all  right,  Mr.  Andrews,"  she  told  me; 
"they've  been  in  communication  with  my  young 


208  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

man,  and  Miss  Bulstrode  has  seen  the  magis- 
trate privately.  The  case  will  be  dismissed  with 
a  fine  of  forty  shillings,  and  Mr.  Quincey  has 
arranged  to  keep  it  out  of  the  papers/ ' 

"Well,  all's  well  that  ends  well,"  I  answered; 
"but  it  might  have  been  better,  my  girl,  if  you 
had  mentioned  that  young  man  of  yours  a  bit 
earlier. ' ' 

"I  did  not  know  it  was  of  any  importance, ' ' 
she  explained.  "Mr.  Parable  told  me  nothing. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  chance,  I  should  never  have 
known  what  was  happening. ' ' 

I  had  always  liked  the  young  woman.  Mr. 
Quincey  had  suggested  my  waiting  till  after 
Wednesday.  But  there  seemed  to  me  no  par- 
ticular object  in  delay. 

"Are  you  fond  of  him?"  I  asked  her. 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  "I  am  fonder  than 

"    And  then  she  stopped  herself  suddenly 

and  flared  scarlet.  "Who  are  you  talking 
about?"  she  demanded. 

"This  young  man  of  yours,"  I  said.  "Mr. 
— what's  his  name — Onions?" 

"Oh,  that!"  she  answered.  "Oh,  yes;  he's 
all  right," 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  209 

"And  if  he  wasn't f"  I  said,  and  she  looked 
at  me  hard. 

"I  told  him,"  she  said,  "that  if  he  would  do 
what  I  asked  him  to  do,  I'd  marry  him.  And 
he  seems  to  have  done  it." 

"There  are  ways  of  doing  everything,"  I 
said;  and,  seeing  it  wasn't  going  to  break  her 
heart,  I  told  her  just  the  plain  facts.  She  lis- 
tened without  a  word,  and  when  I  had  fin- 
ished she  put  her  arms  round  my  neck  and 
kissed  me.  I  am  old  enough  to  be  her  grand- 
father, but  twenty  years  ago  it  might  have 
upset  me. 

"I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  save  Miss  Bul- 
strode  that  three  hundred  pounds,"  she 
laughed,  and  ran  upstairs  and  changed  her 
things.  When  later  I  looked  into  the  kitchen 
she  was  humming. 

Mr.  John  came  up  by  the  car,  and  I  could  see 
he  was  in  one  of  his  moods. 

"Pack  me  some  things  for  a  walking  tour," 
he  said.  "Don't  forget  the  knapsack.  I  am 
going  to  Scotland  by  the  eight-thirty." 

"Will  you  be  away  long?"  I  asked  him. 

"It  depends  upon  how  long  it  takes  me,"  he 


210  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

answered.  "When  I  come  back  I  am  going  to 
be  married." 

"Who  is  the  lady?"  I  asked,  though,  of 
course,  I  knew. 

"Miss  Bulstrode,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "she " 

"That  will  do,"  he  said;  "I  have  had  all  that 
from  the  three  of  them  for  the  last  two  days. 
She  is  a  Socialist,  and  a  Suffragist,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  and  my  ideal  helpmate.  She  is  well 
off,  and  that  will  enable  me  to  devote  all  my 
time  to  putting  the  world  to  rights  without 
bothering  about  anything  else.  Our  home  will 
be  the  nursery  of  advanced  ideas.  We  shall 
share  together  the  joys  and  delights  of  the 
public  platform.  What  more  can  any  man 
want?" 

"You  will  want  your  dinner  early,"  I  said, 
"if  you  are  going  by  the  eight-thirty.  I  had 
better  tell  cook " 

He  interrupted  me  again. 

"You  can  tell  cook  to  go  to  the  devil,"  he 
said. 

I  naturally  stared  at  him. 

' '  She  is  going  to  marry  a  beastly  little  rotter 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  211 

of  a  rent  collector  that  she  doesn't  care  a  damn 
for,"  he  went  on. 

I  conld  not  understand  why  he  seemed  so 
mad  about  it. 

"I  don't  see,  in  any  case,  what  it's  got  to  do 
with  yon,"  I  said,  "but,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
she  isn't. 

"Isn't  what?"  he  said,  stopping  short  and 
turning  on  me. 

"Isn't  going  to  marry  him,"  I  answered. 

"Why  not!"  he  demanded. 

"Better  ask  her,"  I  suggested. 

I  didn't  know  at  the  time  that  it  was  a  silly 
thing  to  say,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should 
not  have  said  it  if  I  had.  When  he  is  in  one 
of  his  moods  I  always  seem  to  get  into  one 
of  mine.  I  have  looked  after  Mr.  John  ever 
since  he  was  a  baby,  so  that  we  do  not  either 
of  us  treat  the  other  quite  as  perhaps  we 
ought  to. 

"Tell  cook  I  want  her,"  he  said. 

"She  is  just  in  the  middle "  I  began. 

"I  don't  care  where  she  is,"  he  said.  He 
seemed  determined  never  to  let  me  finish  a  sen- 
tence.   ' '  Send  her  up  here. ' ' 


212  HIS  EVENING  OUT 

She  was  in  the  kitchen  by  herself. 

' '  He  wants  to  see  you  at  once, ' '  I  said. 

"Who  does?"  she  asked. 

"Mr.  John,"  I  said. 

"What's  he  want  to  see  me  for?"  she  asked. 

"How  do  I  know?"  I  answered. 

"But  you  do,"  she  said.  She  always  had  an 
obstinate  twist  in  her,  and,  feeling  it  would  save 
time,  I  told  her  what  had  happened. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "aren't  you  going?" 

She  was  standing  stock  still  staring  at  the 
pastry  she  was  making.  She  turned  to  me,  and 
there  was  a  curious  smile  about  her  lips. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  ought  to  be  wear- 
ing?" she  said.  "Wings,  and  a  little  bow  and 
arrow." 

She  didn't  even  think  to  wipe  her  hands,  but 
went  straight  upstairs.  It  was  about  half  an 
hour  later  when  the  bell  rang.  Mr.  John  was 
standing  by  the  window. 

"Is  that  bag  ready?"  he  said. 

"It  will  be,"  I  said. 

I  went  out  into  the  hall  and  returned  with  the 
clothes  brush. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  said. 


HIS  EVENING  OUT  213 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  it,"  I  said,  "but 
you  are  all  over  flour." 

"Cook's  going  with  me  to  Scotland,"  he  said. 

I  have  looked  after  Mr.  John  ever  since  he 
was  a  boy.  He  was  forty-two  last  birthday,  but 
when  I  shook  liands  with  him  through  the  cab 
window  I  could  have  sworn  he  was  twenty-five 
again. 


THE  LESSON 


The  Lesson 

THE  first  time  I  met  him,  to  my  knowledge, 
was  on  an  evil-smelling,  one-fnnnelled 
steamboat  that  in  those  days  plied  between 
London  Bridge  and  Antwerp.  He  was  walk- 
ing the  deck  arm-in-arm  with  a  showily  dressed 
but  decidedly  attractive  yonng  woman;  both 
of  them  talking  and  laughing  loudly.  It  struck 
me  as  odd,  finding  him  a  fellow-traveller  by 
such  a  route.  The  passage  occupied  eighteen 
hours,  and  the  first-class  return  fare  was  one 
pound  twelve  and  six,  including  three  meals 
each  way;  drinks,  as  the  contract  was  careful 
to  explain,  being  extra.  I  was  earning  thirty 
shillings  a  week  at  the  time  as  clerk  with  a  firm 
of  agents  in  Fenchurch  Street.  Our  business 
was  the  purchasing  of  articles  on  commission 
for  customers  in  India,  and  I  had  learned  to  be 
a  judge  of  values.    The  beaver-lined  coat  he  was 

217 


218  THE  LESSON 

wearing — for  the  evening,  although  it  was  late 
summer,  was  chilly — must  have  cost  him  a  cou- 
ple of  hundred  pounds,  while  his  carelessly  dis- 
played jewellery  he  could  easily  have  pawned 
for  a  thousand  or  more. 

I  could  not  help  staring  at  him,  and  once, 
as  they  passed,  he  returned  my  look. 

After  dinner,  as  I  was  leaning  with  my  back 
against  the  gunwale  on  the  starboard  side,  he 
came  out  of  the  only  private  cabin  that  the  ves- 
sel boasted,  and  taking  up  a  position  opposite 
to  me,  with  his  legs  well  apart  and  a  big  cigar 
between  his  thick  lips,  stood  coolly  regarding 
me,  as  if  appraising  me. 

' i  Treating  yourself  to  a  little  holiday  on  the 
Continent  V9  he  inquired. 

I  had  not  been  quite  sure  before  he  spoke,  but 
his  lisp,  though  slight,  betrayed  the  Jew.  His 
features  were  coarse,  almost  brutal;  but  the 
restless  eyes  were  so  brilliant,  the  whole  face  so 
suggestive  of  power  and  character,  that,  taking 
him  as  a  whole,  the  feeling  he  inspired  was 
admiration,  tempered  by  fear.  His  tone  was 
one  of  kindly  contempt — the  tone  of  a  man 
accustomed  to  find  most  people  his  inferiors, 


THE  LESSON  219 

and  too  used  to  the  discovery  to  be  conceited 
about  it. 

Behind  it  was  a  note  of  authority  that  it  did 
not  occur  to  me  to  dispute. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  adding  the  information 
that  I  had  never  been  abroad  before,  and  had 
heard  that  Antwerp  was  an  interesting  town. 

' '  How  long  have  you  got  1 "  he  asked. 

"A  fortnight,"  I  told  him. 

"Like  to  see  a  bit  more  than  Antwerp,  if  you 
could  afford  it,  wouldn't  you?"  he  suggested. 
"Fascinating  little  country  Holland.  Just  long 
enough — a  fortnight — to  do  the  whole  of  it. 
I'm  a  Dutchman,  a  Dutch  Jew. ' ' 

"You  speak  English  just  like  an  English- 
man, ' '  I  told  him.  It  was  somehow  in  my  mind 
to  please  him.  I  could  hardly  have  explained 
why. 

"And  half  a  dozen  other  languages  equally 
well,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "I  left  Amster- 
dam when  I  was  eighteen  as  steerage  passenger 
in  an  emigrant  ship.    I  haven't  seen  it  since." 

He  closed  the  cabin  door  behind  him,  and, 
crossing  over,  laid  a  strong  hand  on  my 
shoulder. 


220  THE  LESSON 

"I  will  make  a  proposal  to  you,"  lie  said. 
' '  My  business  is  not  of  the  kind  that  can  be  put 
out  of  mind,  even  for  a  few  days,  and  there  are 
reasons' ' — he  glanced  over  his  shoulder  to- 
wards the  cabin  door,  and  gave  vent  to  a  short 
laugh — "why  I  did  not  want  to  bring  any  of 
my  own  staff  with  me.  If  you  care  for  a  short 
tour,  all  expenses  paid  at  slap-up  hotels  and  a 
ten-pound  note  in  your  pocket  at  the  end,  you 
can  have  it  for  two  hours '  work  a  day. ' ' 

I  suppose  my  face  expressed  my  acceptance, 
for  he  did  not  wait  for  me  to  speak. 

"Only  one  thing  I  stipulate  for,"  he  added, 
"that  you  mind  your  own  business  and  keep 
your  mouth  shut.  You're  by  yourself,  aren't 
you  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  I  told  him. 

He  wrote  on  a  sheet  of  his  notebook,  and, 
tearing  it  out,  handed  it  to  me. 

"That's  your  hotel  at  Antwerp,"  he  said. 
"You  are  Mr.  Horatio  Jones's  secretary."  He 
chuckled  to  himself  as  he  repeated  the  name, 
which  certainly  did  not  fit  him.  "Knock  at  my 
sitting-room  door  at  nine  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning.    Good  night ! ' ' 


THE  LESSON  221 

He  ended  the  conversation  as  abruptly  as  he 
had  begun  it,  and  returned  to  his  cabin. 

I  got  a  glimpse  of  him  next  morning,  com- 
ing out  of  the  hotel  bureau.  He  was  speaking 
to  the  manager  in  French,  and  had  evidently 
given  instructions  concerning  me,  for  I  found 
myself  preceded  by  an  obsequious  waiter  to 
quite  a  charming  bedroom  on  the  second  floor 
while  the  "English  breakfast' '  placed  before 
me  later  in  the  coffee-room  was  of  a  size 
and  character  that  in  those  days  I  did  not  often 
enjoy.  About  the  work,  also,  he  was  as  good 
as  his  word.  I  was  rarely  occupied  for  more 
than  two  hours  each  morning.  The  duties  con- 
sisted chiefly  of  writing  letters  and  sending  off 
telegrams.  The  letters  he  signed  and  had 
posted  himself,  so  that  I  never  learned  his  real 
name — not  during  that  fortnight — but  I  gath- 
ered enough  to  be  aware  that  he  was  a  man 
whose  business  interests  must  have  been  colos- 
sal and  world-wide. 

He  never  introduced  me  to  "Mrs.  Horatio 
Jones/ '  and  after  a  few  days  he  seemed  to  be 
bored  with  her,  so  that  often  I  would  take  her 
place  as  his  companion  in  afternoon  excursions. 


222  THE  LESSON 

I  could  not  help  liking  the  man.  Strength 
always  compels  the  adoration  of  youth;  and 
there  was  something  big  and  heroic  about  him. 
His  daring,  his  swift  decisions,  his  utter  un- 
scrupulousness,  his  occasional  cruelty  when 
necessity  seemed  to  demand  it.  One  could 
imagine  him  in  earlier  days  a  born  leader  of 
savage  hordes,  a  lover  of  fighting  for  its  own 
sake,  meeting  all  obstacles  with  fierce  welcome, 
forcing  his  way  onward,  indifferent  to  the  mis- 
ery and  destruction  caused  by  his  progress,  his 
eyes  never  swerving  from  their  goal;  yet  not 
without  a  sense  of  rough  justice,  not  altogether 
without  kindliness  when  it  could  be  indulged  in 
without  danger. 

One  afternoon  he  took  me  with  him  into  the 
Jewish  quarter  of  Amsterdam,  and  threading 
his  way  without  hesitation  through  its  maze  of 
unsavoury  slums,  paused  before  a  narrow  three- 
storied  house  overlooking  a  stagnant  back- 
water. 

"The  room  I  was  born  in,"  he  explained. 
"Window  with  the  broken  pane  on  the  second 
floor.    It  has  never  been  mended." 

I  stole  a  glance  at  him.     His  face  betrayed 


THE  LESSON  223 

no  suggestion  of  sentiment,  but  rather  of 
amusement.  He  offered  me  a  cigar,  which  I 
was  glad  of,  for  the  stench  from  the  offal-laden 
water  behind  us  was  distracting,  and  for  a  while 
we  both  smoked  in  silence;  he  with  his  eyes 
half -closed ;  it  was  a  trick  of  his  when  working 
out  a  business  problem. 

"Curious,  my  making  such  a  choice,' '  he  re- 
marked. "A  butcher's  assistant  for  my  father 
and  a  consumptive  buttonhole-maker  for  my 
mother.  I  suppose  I  knew  what  I  was  about. 
Quite  the  right  thing  for  me  to  have  done,  as 
it  turned  out. ' ' 

I  stared  at  him,  wondering  whether  he  was 
speaking  seriously  or  in  grim  jest.  He  was 
given  at  times  to  making  odd  remarks.  There 
was  a  vein  of  the  fantastic  in  him  that  was  con- 
tinually cropping  out  and  astonishing  me. 

"It  was  a  bit  risky,"  I  suggested.  "Better 
choose  something  a  little  safer  next  time." 

He  looked  round  at  me  sharply,  and,  not  quite 
sure  of  his  mood,  I  kept  a  grave  face. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  agreed,  with  a 
laugh.  "We  must  have  a  talk  about  it  one 
day." 


224  THE  LESSON 

After  that  visit  to  the  Goortgasse  he  was  less 
reserved  with  me,  and  would  often  talk  to  me 
on  subjects  that  I  should  never  have  guessed 
would  have  interested  him.  I  found  him  a 
curious  mixture.  Behind  the  shrewd,  cynical 
man  of  business  I  caught  continual  glimpses  of 
the  visionary. 

I  parted  from  him  at  The  Hague.  He  paid 
my  fare  back  to  London,  and  gave  me  an  extra 
pound  for  travelling  expenses,  together  with  the 
ten-pound  note  he  had  promised  me.  He  had 
packed  off  "Mrs.  Horatio  Jones' '  some  days 
before,  to  the  relief,  I  imagine,  of  both  of  them, 
and  he  himself  continued  his  journey  to  Berlin. 
I  never  expected  to  see  him  again,  although  for 
the  next  few  months  I  often  thought  of  him, 
and  even  tried  to  discover  him  by  inquiries  in 
the  city.  I  had,  however,  very  little  to  go 
upon,  and  after  I  had  left  Fenchurch  Street 
behind  me,  and  drifted  into  literature,  I  forgot 
him. 

Until  one  day  I  received  a  letter  addressed  to 
the  care  of  my  publishers.  It  bore  the  Swiss 
postmark,  and  opening  it  and  turning  to  the 
signature   I   sat   wondering  for  the   moment 


THE  LESSON  225 

where  I  had  met  " Horatio  Jones.' '  And  then 
I  remembered. 

He  was  lying  bruised  and  broken  in  a  wood- 
cutter's hut  on  the  slopes  of  the  Jungfrau. 
Had  been  playing  a  fool's  trick,  so  he  described 
it,  thinking  he  could  climb  mountains  at  his  age. 
They  would  carry  him  down  to  Lauterbrunnen 
as  soon  as  he  could  be  moved  farther  with 
safety,  but  for  the  present  he  had  no  one  to 
talk  to  but  the  nurse  and  a  Swiss  doctor  who 
climbed  up  to  see  him  every  third  day.  He 
begged  me,  if  I  could  spare  the  time,  to  come 
over  and  spend  a  week  with  him.  He  enclosed 
a  hundred-pound  cheque  for  my  expenses,  mak- 
ing no  apology  for  doing  so.  He  was  compli- 
mentary about  my  first  book,  which  he  had  been 
reading,  and  asked  me  to  telegraph  him  my 
reply,  giving  me  his  real  name  which,  as  I  had 
guessed  it  would,  proved  to  be  one  of  the  best 
known  in  the  financial  world.  My  time  was  my 
own  now,  and  I  wired  him  that  I  would  be  with 
him  the  following  Monday. 

He  was  lying  in  the  sun  outside  the  hut  when 
I  arrived  late  in  the  afternoon,  after  a  three- 
hours  '  climb  followed  by  a  porter  carrying  my 


226  THE  LESSON 

small  amount  of  luggage.  He  could  not  raise 
his  hand,  but  his  strangely  brilliant  eyes  spoke 
their  welcome. 

"I  am  glad  you  were  able  to  come,"  he  said. 
"I  have  no  near  relations,  and  my  friends 
— if  that  is  the  right  term — are  business  men 
who  would  be  bored  to  tears.  Besides,  they 
are  not  the  people  I  feel  I  want  to  talk  to, 
now. ' ' 

He  was  entirely  reconciled  to  the  coming  of 
death.  Indeed,  there  were  moments  when  he 
gave  me  the  idea  that  he  was  looking  for- 
ward to  it  with  an  awed  curiosity.  With  the 
conventional  notion  of  cheering  him,  I  talked 
of  staying  till  he  was  able  to  return  with  me  to 
civilisation,  but  he  only  laughed. 

"I  am  not  going  back,"  he  said.  "Not  that 
way.  What  they  may  do  afterward  with  these 
broken  bones  does  not  much  concern  either  you 
or  me. 

"It's  a  good  place  to  die  in,"  he  continued. 
* '  A  man  can  think  up  here. ' ' 

It  was  difficult  to  feel  sorry  for  him,  his  own 
fate  appearing  to  make  so  little  difference  to 
himself.     The  world  was  still  full  of  interest 


THE  LESSON  227 

to  him — not  his  own  particular  corner  of  it: 
that,  he  gave  me  to  understand,  he  had  tidied 
up  and  dismissed  from  his  mind.  It  was  the 
future,  its  coming  problems,  its  possibilities,  its 
new  developments,  about  which  he  seemed 
eager  to  talk.  One  might  have  imagined  him 
a  young  man  with  the  years  before  him. 

One  evening — it  was  near  the  end — we  were 
alone  together.  The  woodcutter  and  his  wife 
had  gone  down  into  the  valley  to  see  their  chil- 
dren, and  the  nurse,  leaving  him  in  my  charge, 
had  gone  for  a  walk.  We  had  carried  him 
round  to  his  favourite  side  of  the  hut  facing  the 
towering  mass  of  the  Jungfrau.  As  the  shad- 
ows lengthened  it  seemed  to  come  nearer  to  us, 
and  there  fell  a  silence  upon  us. 

Gradually  I  became  aware  that  his  piercing 
eyes  were  fixed  on  me,  and  in  answer  I  turned 
and  looked  at  him. 

"I  wonder  if  we  shall  meet  again,"  he  said, 
"or,  what  is  more  important,  if  we  shall  remem- 
ber one  another. ' ' 

I  was  puzzled  for  the  moment.  We  had  dis- 
cussed more  than  once  the  various  religions  of 
mankind,  and  his  attitude  towards  the  orthodox 


228  THE  LESSON 

beliefs  had  always  been  that  of  amused  con- 
tempt. 

1  i  It  has  been  growing  upon  me  these  last  few 
days,"  he  continued.  "It  flashed  across  me  the 
first  time  I  saw  you  on  the  boat.  We  were  fel- 
low-students. Something,  I  don't  know  what, 
drew  us  very  close  together.  There  was  a 
woman.  They  were  burning  her.  And  then 
there  was  a  rush  of  people  and  a  sudden  dark- 
ness, and  your  eyes  close  to  mine.,, 

I  suppose  it  was  some  form  of  hypnotism,  for, 
as  he  spoke,  his  searching  eyes  fixed  on  mine, 
there  came  to  me  a  dream  of  narrow  streets 
filled  with  a  strange  crowd,  of  painted  houses 
such  as  I  had  never  seen,  and  a  haunting  fear 
that  seemed  to  be  always  lurking  behind  each 
shadow.  I  shook  myself  free,  but  not  without 
an  effort. 

"So  that's  what  you  meant,' '  I  said,  "that 
evening  in  the  Goortgasse.    You  believe  in  it?" 

"A  curious  thing  happened  to  me,"  he  said, 
"when  I  was  a  child.  I  could  hardly  have  been 
six  years  old.  I  had  gone  to  Ghent  with  my  par- 
ents. I  think  it  was  to  visit  some  relative.  One 
day  we  went  into  the  castle.    It  was  in  ruins 


THE  LESSON  229 

then,  but  has  since  been  restored.  We  were  in 
what  was  once  the  council  chamber.  I  stole 
away  by  myself  to  the  other  end  of  the  great 
room  and,  not  knowing  why  I  did  so,  I  touched 
a  spring  concealed  in  the  masonry,  and  a  door 
swung  open  with  a  harsh,  grinding  noise.  I 
remember  peering  round  the  opening.  The  oth- 
ers had  their  backs  towards  me,  and  I  slipped 
through  and  closed  the  door  behind  me.  I 
seemed  instinctively  to  know  my  way.  I  ran 
down  a  flight  of  steps  and  along  dark  corridors 
through  which  I  had  to  feel  my  way  with  my 
hands,  till  I  came  to  a  small  door  in  an  angle  of 
the  wall.  I  knew  the  room  that  lay  the  other 
side.  A  photograph  was  taken  of  it  and  pub- 
lished years  afterward,  when  the  place  was 
discovered,  and  it  was  exactly  as  I  knew  it  with 
its  way  out  underneath  the  city  wall  through 
one  of  the  small  houses  in  the  Aussermarkt. 

"I  could  not  open  the  door.  Some  stones  had 
fallen  against  it,  and  fearing  to  get  punished, 
I  made  my  way  back  into  the  council  room.  It 
was  empty  when  I  reached  it.  They  were 
searching  for  me  in  the  other  rooms,  and  I  never 
told  them  of  my  adventure. ' ' 


230  THE  LESSON 

At  any  other  time  I  might  have  laughed. 
Later,  recalling  his  talk  that  afternoon,  I  dis- 
missed the  whole  story  as  mere  suggestion, 
based  upon  the  imagination  of  a  child;  but  at 
the  time  those  strangely  brilliant  eyes  had  taken 
possession  of  me.  They  remained  still  fixed 
upon  me  as  I  sat  on  the  low  rail  of  the  veranda 
watching  his  white  face,  into  which  the  hues  of 
death  seemed  already  to  be  creeping. 

I  had  a  feeling  that,  through  them,  he  was 
trying  to  force  remembrance  of  himself  upon 
me.  The  man  himself — the  very  soul  of  him — 
seemed  to  be  concentrated  in  them.  Something 
formless  and  yet  distinct  was  visualising  itself 
before  me.  It  came  to  me  as  a  physical  relief 
when  a  spasm  of  pain  caused  him  to  turn  his 
eyes  away  from  me. 

"You  will  find  a  letter  when  I  am  gone,"  he 
went  on,  after  a  moment's  silence.  "I  thought 
that  you  might  come  too  late,  or  that  I  might 
not  have  strength  enough  to  tell  you.  I  felt 
that  out  of  the  few  people  I  have  met  outside 
business,  you  would  be  the  most  likely  not  to 
dismiss  the  matter  as  mere  nonsense.  What  I 
am  glad  of  myself,  and  what  I  wish  you  to 


THE  LESSON  231 

remember,  is  that  I  am  dying  with  all  my  facul- 
ties about  me.  The  one  thing  I  have  always 
feared  through  life  was  old  age,  with  its  gradual 
mental  decay.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that 
I  have  died  more  or  less  suddenly  while  still  in 
possession  of  my  will.  I  have  always  thanked 
God  for  that." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  but  I  do  not  think  he  was 
sleeping;  and  a  little  later  the  nurse  returned, 
and  we  carried  him  indoors.  I  had  no  further 
conversation  with  him,  though  at  his  wish  dur- 
ing the  following  two  days  I  continued  to  read 
to  him,  and  on  the  third  day  he  died. 

I  found  the  letter  he  had  spoken  of.  He  had 
told  me  where  it  would  be.  It  contained  a  bun- 
dle of  banknotes  which  he  was  giving  me— so 
he  wrote — with  the  advice  to  get  rid  of  them 
as  quickly  as  possible. 

"If  I  had  not  loved  you,"  the  letter  contin- 
ued, "I  would  have  left  you  an  income,  and  you 
would  have  blessed  me,  instead  of  cursing  me, 
as  you  should  have  done,  for  spoiling  your 
life." 

This  world  was  a  school,  so  he  viewed  it,  for 
the  making  of  men ;  and  the  one  thing  essential 


232  THE  LESSON 

to  a  man  was  strength.  One  gathered  the 
impression  of  a  deeply  religious  man.  In  these 
days  he  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  claimed  as  a 
theosophist;  but  his  beliefs  he  had  made  for, 
and  adapted  to,  himself — to  his  vehement,  con- 
quering temperament.  God  needed  men  to 
serve  Him — to  help  Him.  So,  through  many 
changes,  through  many  ages,  God  gave  men 
life :  that  by  contest  and  by  struggle  they  might 
ever  increase  in  strength ;  to  those  who  proved 
themselves  most  fit  the  sterner  task,  the  hum- 
bler beginnings,  the  greater  obstacles.  And  the 
crown  of  well-doing  was  ever  victory.  He 
appeared  to  have  convinced  himself  that  he  was 
one  of  the  chosen,  that  he  was  destined  for  great 
ends.  He  had  been  a  slave  in  the  time  of  the 
Pharaohs ;  a  priest  in  Babylon ;  had  clung  to  the 
swaying  ladders  in  the  sack  of  Rome ;  had  won 
his  way  into  the  councils  when  Europe  was  a 
battlefield  of  contending  tribes ;  had  climbed  to 
power  in  the  days  of  the  Borgias. 

To  most  of  us,  I  suppose,  there  come  at  odd 
moments  haunting  thoughts  of  strangely  famil- 
iar, far-off  things;  and  one  wonders  whether 
they   are  memories   or  dreams.     We   dismiss 


THE  LESSON  233 

them  as  we  grow  older  and  the  present  with  its 
crowding  interests  shnts  them  out ;  but  in  youth 
they  were  more  persistent.  With  him  they 
appeared  to  have  remained,  growing  in  reality. 
His  recent  existence,  closed  under  the  white 
sheet  in  the  hut  behind  me  as  I  read,  was  only 
one  chapter  of  the  story;  he  was  looking  for- 
ward to  the  next. 

He  wondered,  so  the  letter  ran,  whether  he 
would  have  any  voice  in  choosing  it.  In  either 
event  he  was  curious  of  the  result.  What  he 
anticipated  confidently  were  new  opportunities, 
wider  experience.  In  what  shape  would  these 
come  in  him? 

The  letter  ended  with  a  strange  request.  It 
was  that,  on  returning  to  England,  I  should 
continue  to  think  of  him — not  of  the  dead  man 
I  had  known,  the  Jewish  banker,  the  voice 
familiar  to  me,  the  trick  of  speech,  of  manner, 
all  such  being  but  the  changing  clothes — but  of 
the  man  himself,  the  soul  of  him,  that  would 
seek  and  perhaps  succeed  in  revealing  itself  to 
me. 

A  postscript  concluded  the  letter,  to  which  at 
the  time  I  attached  no  importance.     He  had 


234  THE  LESSON 

made  a  purchase  of  the  hut  in  which  he  had  died. 
After  his  removal  it  was  to  remain  empty. 

I  folded  the  letter  and  placed  it  among  other 
papers,  and  passing  into  the  hut  took  a  fare- 
well glance  at  the  massive,  rugged  face.  The 
mask  might  have  served  a  sculptor  for  the 
embodiment  of  strength.  He  gave  one  the  feel- 
ing that  having  conquered  death  he  was  sleep- 
ing. 

I  did  what  he  had  requested  of  me.  Indeed, 
I  could  not  help  it.  I  thought  of  him  constantly. 
That  may  have  been  the  explanation  of  it. 

I  was  bicycling  through  Norfolk,  and  one 
afternoon,  to  escape  a  coming  thunderstorm,  I 
knocked  at  the  door  of  a  lonely  cottage  on  the 
outskirts  of  a  common.  The  woman,  a  kindly 
bustling  person,  asked  me  in;  and  hoping  I 
would  excuse  her,  ajs  she  was  bus|y  ironing, 
returned  to  her  work  in  another  room.  I 
thought  myself  alone,  and  was  standing  at  the 
window  watching  the  pouring  rain.  After  a 
while,  without  knowing  why,  I  turned.  And 
then  I  saw  a  child  seated  on  a  high  chair  behind 
a  table  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  room.  A  book 
of  pictures  was  open  before  it,  but  it  was  look- 


THE  LESSON  235 

ing  at  me.  I  could  hear  the  sound  of  the  woman 
at  her  ironing  in  the  other  room.  Outside  there 
was  the  steady  thrashing  of  the  rain.  The  child 
was  looking  at  me  with  large,  round  eyes  filled 
with  a  terrible  pathos.  I  noticed  that  the  lit- 
tle body  was  misshapen.  It  never  moved;  it 
made  no  sound;  but  I  had  the  feeling  that  out 
of  these  strangely  wistful  eyes  something  was 
trying  to  speak  to  me.  Something  was  forming 
itself  before  me — not  visible  to  my  sight;  but 
it  was  there,  in  the  room.  It  was  the  man  I  had 
last  looked  upon  as,  dying,  he  sat  beside  me  in 
the  hut  below  the  Jungfrau.  But  something 
had  happened  to  him.  Moved  by  instinct  I 
went  over  to  him  and  lifted  him  out  of  his  chair, 
and  with  a  sob  the  little  wizened  arms  closed 
round  my  neck  and  he  clung  to  me  crying,  a 
pitiful  low  wailing  cry. 

Hearing  his  cry,  the  woman  came  back.  A 
comely,  healthy-looking  woman.  She  took  him 
from  my  arms  and  comforted  him. 

"He  gets  a  bit  sorry  for  himself  at  times,' ' 
she  explained.  * '  At  least,  so  I  fancy.  You  see, 
he  can't  run  about  like  other  children,  or  do 
anything  without  getting  pains.' 9 


236  THE  LESSON 

"Was  it  an  accident ?"  I  asked. 

' '  No, ' '  she  answered,  ' '  and  his  father  as  fine 
a  man  as  yon  wonld  find  in  a  day's  march.  Just 
a  visitation  of  God,  as  they  tell  me.  Sure  I  don't 
know  why.  There  never  was  a  better  little  lad, 
and  clever,  too,  when  he's  not  in  pain.  Draws 
wonderfully. ' ' 

The  storm  had  passed.  He  grew  quieter  in 
her  arms,  and  when  I  had  promised  to  come 
again  and  bring  him  a  new  picture-book,  a  little 
grateful  smile  flickered  across  the  drawn  face, 
but  he  would  not  talk. 

I  kept  in  touch  with  him.  Mere  curiosity 
would  have  made  me  do  that.  He  grew  more 
normal  as  the  years  went  by,  and  gradually  the 
fancy  that  had  come  to  me  at  our  first  meeting 
faded  farther  into  the  background.  Sometimes, 
using  the  very  language  of  the  dead  man's  let- 
ter, I  would  talk  to  him,  wondering  if  by  any 
chance  some  flash  of  memory  would  come  back 
to  him,  and  once  or  twice  it  seemed  to  me  that 
into  the  mild,  pathetic  eyes  there  came  a  look 
that  I  had  seen  before,  but  it  passed  away,  and 
indeed,  it  was  difficult  to  think  of  this  sad  little 
human  oddity,  with  its  pleading  helplessness, 


THE  LESSON  237 

in  connection  with  the  strong,  swift,  conquering 
spirit  that  I  had  watched  passing  away  amid 
the  silence  of  the  mountains. 

The  one  thing  that  brought  joy  to  him  was 
his  art.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that,  but  for 
his  health,  he  would  have  made  a  name  for  him- 
self. His  work  was  always  clever,  and  original, 
but  it  was  the  work  of  an  invalid. 

"I  shall  never  be  great,' '  he  said  to  me  once. 
"I  have  such  wonderful  dreams,  but  when  it 
comes  to  working  them  out  there  is  something 
that  hampers  me.  It  always  seems  to  me  as  if 
at  the  last  moment  a  hand  was  stretched  out 
that  clutched  me  by  the  feet.  I  long  so,  but  I 
have  not  the  strength.  It  is  terrible  to  be  one 
of  the  weaklings." 

It  clung  to  me,  that  word  he  had  used.  For 
a  man  to  know  he  is  weak ;  it  sounds  a  paradox, 
but  a  man  must  be  strong  to  know  that.  And 
dwelling  upon  this,  and  upon  his  patience  and 
his  gentleness,  there  came  to  me  suddenly 
remembrance  of  that  postscript,  the  significance 
of  which  I  had  not  understood. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  about  three-  or  four- 
and-twenty  at  the  time.    His  father  had  died, 


238  THE  LESSON 

and  he  was  living  in  poor  lodgings  in  the  south 
of  London,  supporting  himself  and  his  mother 
by  strenuous,  ill-paid  work. 

"I  want  you  to  come  with  me  for  a  few  days^ 
holiday,"  I  told  him. 

I  had  some  difficulty  in  persuading  him  to 
accept  my  help,  for  he  was  proud  in  his  sensi- 
tive, apologetic  way.  But  I  succeeded  even- 
tually, persuading  him  it  would  be  good  for  his 
work.  Physically  the  journey  must  have  cost 
him  dear,  for  he  could  never  move  his  body 
without  pain,  but  the  changing  landscapes  and 
the  strange  cities  more  than  repaid  him;  and 
when  one  morning  I  woke  him  early  and  he 
saw  for  the  first  time  the  distant  mountains 
clothed  in  dawn,  there  came  a  new  light  into 
his  eyes. 

We  reached  the  hut  late  in  the  afternoon.  I 
had  made  my  arrangements  so  that  we  should 
be  there  alone.  Our  needs  were  simple,  and  in 
various  wanderings  I  had  learned  to  be  inde- 
pendent. I  did  not  tell  him  why  I  had  brought 
him  there,  beyond  the  beauty  and  stillness  of 
the  place.  Purposely  I  left  him  much  alone 
there,  making  ever-lengthening  walks  my  ex- 


THE  LESSON  239 

cuse,  and  though  he  was  always  glad  of  my 
return  I  felt  that  the  desire  was  growing  upon 
him  to  be  there  by  himself. 

One  evening,  having  climbed  farther  than  I 
had  intended,  I  lost  my  way.  It  was  not  safe  in 
that  neighbourhood  to  try  new  pathways  in  the 
dark,  and  chancing  upon  a  deserted  shelter,  I 
made  myself  a  bed  upon  the  straw. 

I  found  him  seated  outside  the  hut  when  I 
returned,  and  he  greeted  me  as  if  he  had  been 
expecting  me  just  at  that  moment  and  not 
before.  He  guessed  just  what  had  happened, 
he  told  me,  and  had  not  been  alarmed.  During 
the  day  I  found  him  watching  me,  and  in  the 
evening,  as  we  sat  in  his  favourite  place  out- 
side the  hut,  he  turned  to  me. 

"You  think  it  true!"  he  said.  "That  you 
and  I  sat  here  years  ago  and  talked  V 

"I  cannot  tell,"  I  answered.  "I  only  know 
that  he  died  here,  if  there  be  such  a  thing  as 
death — that  no  one  has  ever  lived  here  since. 
I  doubt  if  the  door  has  ever  been  opened  till 
we  came." 

"They  have  always  been  with  me,"  he  con- 
tinued, "these  dreams.    But  I  have  always  dis- 


240  THE  LESSON 

missed  them.  They  seemed  so  ludicrous. 
Always  there  came  to  me  wealth,  power,  vic- 
tory.   Life  was  so  easy. ' ' 

He  laid  his  thin  hand  on  mine.  A  strange 
new  look  came  into  his  eyes — a  look  of  hope, 
almost  of  joy. 

"Do  you  know  what  it  seems  to  me?"  he  said. 
"You  will  laugh  perhaps,  but  the  thought  has 
come  to  me  up  here  that  God  has  some  fine  use 
for  me.  Success  was  making  me  feeble.  He 
has  given  me  weakness  and  failure  that  I  may 
learn  strength.  The  great  thing  is  to  be 
strong. ' ' 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 


Sylvia  of  the  Letters 

OLD  Ab  Herrick,  so  most  people  called  him. 
Not  that  he  was  actually  old;  the  term 
was  an  expression  of  liking  rather  than  any 
reflection  on  his  years.  He  lived  in  an  old- 
fashioned  house — old-fashioned,  that  is,  for 
New  York — on  the  south  side  of  West  Twen- 
tieth Street:  once  upon  a  time,  but  that  was 
long  ago,  quite  a  fashionable  quarter.  The 
house,  together  with  Mrs.  Travers,  had  been 
left  him  by  a  maiden  aunt.  An  " apartment' ' 
would,  of  course,  have  been  more  suitable  to  a 
bachelor  of  simple  habits,  but  the  situation  was 
convenient  from  a  journalistic  point  of  view, 
and  for  fifteen  years  Abner  Herrick  had  lived 
and  worked  there. 

Then  one  evening,  after  a  three  days'  ab- 
sence, Abner  Herrick  returned  to  West  Twen- 

243 


244        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

tieth  Street,  bringing  with  him  a  little  girl 
wrapped  up  in  a  shawl,  and  a  wooden  box  tied 
with  a  piece  of  cord.  He  put  the  box  on  the 
table ;  and  the  young  lady,  loosening  her  shawl, 
walked  to  the  window  and  sat  down  facing  the 
room. 

Mrs.  Travers  took  the  box  off  the  table  and 
put  it  on  the  floor — it  was  quite  a  little  box — 
and  waited. 

"This  young  lady,"  explained  Abner  Her- 
rick,  "is  Miss  Ann  Kavanagh,  daughter  of — 
of  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"  Oh ! ' '  said  Mrs.  Travers,  and  remained  still 
expectant. 

"Miss   Kavanagh,"  continued  Abner   Her- 

rick,  "will  be  staying  with  us  for "     He 

appeared  to  be  uncertain  of  the  length  of  Miss 
Kavanagh's  visit.  He  left  the  sentence  unfin- 
ished and  took  refuge  in  more  pressing  ques- 
tions. 

"What  about  the  bedroom  on  the  second 
floor?  Is  it  ready?  Sheets  aired — all  that 
sort  of  thing?" 

"It  can  be,"  replied  Mrs.  Travers.  The  tone 
was  suggestive  of  judgment  reserved. 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        245 

"I  think,  if  you  don't  mind,  Mrs.  Travers, 
that  we'd  like  to  go  to  bed  as  soon  as  possible." 
From  force  of  habit  Abner  S.  Herrick  in  speak- 
ing employed  as  a  rule  the  editorial  "we," 
"We  have  been  travelling  all  day  and  we  are 
very  tired.    To-morrow  morning " 

"I'd  like  some  supper,"  said  Miss  Kavanagh 
from  her  seat  in  the  window,  without  moving. 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Miss  Kavanagh 's  host, 
with  a  feeble  pretence  that  the  subject  had  been 
on  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  really  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  "We 
might  have  it  up  here  while  the  room  is  being 
got  ready.    Perhaps  a  little " 

"A  soft-boiled  egg  and  a  glass  of  milk,  if 
you  please,  Mrs.  Travers,"  interrupted  Miss 
Kavanagh,  still  from  her  seat  at  the  window. 

"I'll  see  about  it,"  said  Mrs.  Travers,  and 
went  out,  taking  the  quite  small  box  with  her. 

Such  was  the  coming  into  this  story  of  Ann 
Kavanagh  at  the  age  of  eight  years ;  or,  as  Miss 
Kavanagh  herself  would  have  explained,  had 
the  question  been  put  to  her,  eight  years  and 
seven  months,  for  Ann  Kavanagh  was  a  precise 
young  lady.    She  was  not  beautiful — not  then. 


246        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

She  was  much  too  sharp  featured;  the  little 
pointed  chin  protruding  into  space  to  quite  a 
dangerous  extent.  Her  large  dark  eyes  were 
her  one  redeeming  feature.  But  the  level 
brows  above  them  were  much  too  ready  with 
their  frown.  A  sallow  complexion  and  nonde- 
script hair  deprived  her  of  that  charm  of  col- 
ouring on  which  youth  can  generally  depend 
for  attraction,  whatever  its  faults  of  form.  Nor 
could  it  truthfully  be  said  that  sweetness  of  dis- 
position afforded  compensation. 

"A  self-willed,  cantankerous  little  imp  I  call 
her,"  was  Mrs.  Travers 's  comment,  expressed 
after  one  of  the  many  trials  of  strength  between 
them,  from  which  Miss  Kavanagh  had  as  usual 
emerged  triumphant. 

"It's  her  father,"  explained  Abner  Herrick, 
feeling  himself  unable  to  contradict. 

"It's  unfortunate,"  answered  Mrs.  Travers, 
"whatever  it  is." 

To  Uncle  Ab  himself,  as  she  had  come  to  call 
him,  she  could  on  occasion  be  yielding  and  affec- 
tionate; but  that,  as  Mrs.  Travers  took  care  to 
point  out  to  her,  was  a  small  thing  to  her  credit. 

"If  you  had  the  instincts  of  an  ordinary 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        247 

Christian  child,"  explained  Mrs.  Travers  to 
her,  " you'd  be  thinking  twenty-four  hours  a 
day  of  what  you  could  do  to  repay  him  for  all 
his  loving  kindness  to  you;  instead  of  causing 
him,  as  you  know  you  do,  a  dozen  heartaches  in 
a  week.  You're  an  ungrateful  little  monkey, 
and  when  he's  gone  you'll " 

Upon  which  Miss  Kavanagh,  not  waiting  to 
hear  more,  flew  upstairs  and,  locking  herself 
in  her  own  room,  gave  herself  up  to  howling 
and  remorse;  but  was  careful  not  to  emerge 
until  she  felt  bad  tempered  again,  and  able, 
should  opportunity  present  itself,  to  renew 
the  contest  with  Mrs.  Travers  unhampered  by 
sentiment. 

But  Mrs.  Travers 's  words  had  sunk  in  deeper 
than  that  good  lady  herself  had  hoped  for; 
and  one  evening,  when  Abner  Herrick  was 
seated  at  his  desk  penning  a  scathing  indict- 
ment of  the  President  for  lack  of  firmness  and 
decision  on  the  tariff  question,  Ann,  putting  her 
thin  arms  round  his  neck  and  rubbing  her  lit- 
tle sallow  face  against  his  right-hand  whisker, 
took  him  to  task  on  the  subject. 

"You're  not  bringing  me  up  properly — not 


248        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

as  you  ought  to,"  explained  Ann.    "You  give 
way  to  me  too  much,  and  you  never  scold  me." 

"Not  scold  you!"  exclaimed  Abner  with  a 
certain  warmth  of  indignation.     "Why,  I'm 

doing  it  all " 

"Not  what  I  call  scolding,"  continued  Ann. 
"It's  very  wrong  of  you.    I  shall  grow  up 
horrid  if  you  don't  help  me." 

As  Ann  with  great  clearness  pointed  out  to 
him,  there  was  no  one  else  to  undertake  the  job 
with  any  chance  of  success.  If  Abner  failed 
her,  then  she  supposed  there  was  no  hope  for 
her:  she  would  end  by  becoming  a  wicked 
woman,  and  everybody,  including  herself,  would 
hate  her.  It  was  a  sad  prospect.  The  contem- 
plation of  it  brought  tears  to  Ann's  eyes. 

He  saw  the  justice  of  her  complaint  and 
promised  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  He  honestly 
meant  to  do  so ;  but,  like  many  another  repent- 
ant sinner,  found  himself  feeble  before  the  dif- 
ficulties of  performance.  He  might  have 
succeeded  better  had  it  not  been  for  her  soft 
deep  eyes  beneath  her  level  brows. 

"You're  not  much  like  your  mother,"  so  he 
explained  to  her  one  day,  "except  about  the 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        249 

eyes.  Looking  into  your  eyes  I  can  almost  see 
your  mother. ' ' 

He  was  smoking  a  pipe  beside  the  fire,  and 
Ann,  who  ought  to  have  been  in  bed,  had 
perched  herself  upon  one  of  the  arms  of  his 
chair  and  was  kicking  a  hole  in  the  worn  leather 
with  her  little  heels. 

"She  was  very  beautiful,  my  mother,  wasn't 
she?"  suggested  Ann. 

Abner  Herrick  blew  a  cloud  from  his  pipe 
and  watched  carefully  the  curling  smoke. 

"  In  a  way,  yes, ' '  he  answered.  i  i  Quite  beau- 
tiful." 

"What  do  you  mean,  'In  a  way'?"  demanded 
Ann  with  some  asperity. 

"It  was  a  spiritual  beauty,  your  mother's," 
Abner  explained.  "The  soul  looking  out  of  her 
eyes.  I  don't  think  it  possible  to  imagine  a 
more  beautiful  disposition  than  your  mother's. 
Whenever  I  think  of  your  mother,"  continued 
Abner  after  a  pause,  "Wordsworth's  lines 
always  come  into  my  mind." 

He  murmured  the  quotation  to  himself,  but 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  sharp  ears.  Miss 
Kavanagh  was  mollified. 


250        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

"You  were  in  love  with  my  mother,  weren't 
you!"  she  questioned  him  kindly. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  was,"  mused  Abner,  still 
with  his  gaze  upon  the  curling  smoke. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'you  suppose  you 
were'?"  snapped  Ann.     "Didn't  you  know?" 

The  tone  recalled  him  from  his  dreams. 

"I  was  in  love  with  your  mother  very  much," 
he  corrected  himself,  turning  to  her  with  a 
smile. 

"Then  why  didn't  you  marry  her!"  asked 
Ann.     "Wouldn't  she  have  you?" 

"I  never  asked  her,"  explained  Abner. 

"Why  not?"  persisted  Ann,  returning  to 
asperity. 

He  thought  a  moment. 

"You  wouldn't  understand,"  he  told  her. 

"Yes,  I  would,"  retorted  Ann. 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  he  contradicted  her 
quite  shortly.  They  were  both  beginning  to 
lose  patience  with  one  another.  "No  woman 
ever  could." 

"I'm  not  a  woman,"  explained  Ann,  "and 
I'm  very  smart.    You've  said  so  yourself." 

"Not  so  smart  as  all  that,"  growled  Abner. 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        251 

"Added  to  which,  it's  time  for  you  to  go  to 
bed." 

Her  anger  with  him  was  such  that  it  ren- 
dered her  absolutely  polite.  It  had  that  occa- 
sional effect  upon  her.  She  slid  from  the  arm 
of  his  chair  and  stood  beside  him,  a  rigid  figure 
of  frozen  femininity. 

"I  think  you  are  quite  right,  Uncle  Her- 
rick.  Good  night ! ' '  But  at  the  door  she  could 
not  resist  a  parting  shot: 

"You  might  have  been  my  father,  and  then 
perhaps  she  wouldn't  have  died.  I  think  it  was 
very  wicked  of  you. ' ' 

After  she  was  gone  Abner  sat  gazing  into  the 
fire,  and  his  pipe  went  out.  Eventually  the 
beginnings  of  a  smile  stole  to  the  corners  of 
his  mouth,  but  before  it  could  spread  any  far- 
ther he  dismissed  it  with  a  sigh. 

Abner,  for  the  next  day  or  two,  feared  a 
renewal  of  the  conversation,  but  Ann  appeared 
to  have  forgotten  it;  and  as  time  went  by  it 
faded  from  Abner 's  own  memory.  Until  one 
evening  quite  a  while  later. 

The  morning  had  brought  him  his  English 
mail.    It  had  been  arriving  with  some  regular- 


252        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

ity,  and  Ann  had  noticed  that  Abner  always 
opened  it  before  his  other  correspondence.  One 
letter  he  read  through  twice,  and  Ann,  who  was 
pretending  to  be  reading  the  newspaper,  felt 
that  he  was  looking  at  her. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  my  dear,"  said  Abner, 
* '  that  it  must  be  rather  lonely  for  you  here,  all 
by  yourself." 

"It  would  be,"  answered  Ann,  "if  I  were 
here  all  by  myself. ' ' 

"I  mean,"  said  Abner,  "without  any  other 
young  person  to  talk  to  and — and  to  play  with. ' ' 

"You  forget,"  said  Ann,  "that  I'm  nearly 
thirteen. ' ' 

"God  bless  my  soul,"  said  Abner.  "How 
time  does  fly ! " 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Ann. 

"It  isn't  a  'she,'  "  explained  Abner.  "It's 
a  'he.'  Poor  little  chap  lost  his  mother  two 
years  ago,  and  now  his  father's  dead.  I 
thought — it  occurred  to  me  we  might  put  him 
up  for  a  time.  Look  after  him  a  bit.  What  do 
you  think?  It  would  make  the  house  more 
lively,  wouldn't  it?" 

"It  might,"  said  Ann. 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        253 

She  sat  very  silent,  and  Abner,  whose  con- 
science was  troubling  him,  watched  her  a  little 
anxiously.    After  a  time  she  looked  up. 

"What's  he  like?"  she  asked. 

"Precisely  what  I  am  wondering  myself," 
confessed  Abner.  "We  shall  have  to  wait  and 
see.  But  his  mother — his  mother,"  repeated 
Abner,  "was  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  have 
ever  known.  If  he  is  anything  like  she  was  as 
a  girl "    He  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

"You  have  not  seen  her  since — since  she  was 
young!"  questioned  Ann. 

Abner  shook  his  head.  "She  married  an 
Englishman.  He  took  her  back  with  him  to 
London. ' y 

"I  don't  like  Englishmen,"  said  Ann. 

"They  have  their  points,"  suggested  Abner. 
"Besides,  boys  take  after  their  mothers,  they 
say. ' '  And  Abner  rose  and  gathered  his  letters 
together. 

Ann  remained  very  thoughtful  all  that  day. 
In  the  evening,  when  Abner  for  a  moment  laid 
down  his  pen  for  the  purpose  of  relighting  his 
pipe,  Ann  came  to  him,  seating  herself  on  the 
corner  of  the  desk. 


254        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "that's  why  you  never 
married  mother  ?" 

Aimer's  mind  at  the  moment  was  much  occu- 
pied with  the  Panama  Canal. 

"What  mother !"  he  asked.  "Whose 
mother  ?" 

"My  mother,"  answered  Ann.  "I  suppose 
men  are  like  that." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Abner, 
dismissing  altogether  the  Panama  Canal. 

"You  loved  my  mother  very  much,"  ex- 
plained Ann  with  cold  deliberation.  "She 
always  made  you  think  of  Wordsworth's  per- 
fect woman." 

"Who  told  you  all  that?"  demanded  Abner. 

"You  did." 

"I  did?" 

"It  was  the  day  you  took  me  away  from  Miss 
Carew's  because  she  said  she  couldn't  manage 
me, ' '  Ann  informed  him. 

"Good  Lord!  Why,  that  must  be  two  years 
ago,"  mused  Abner. 

i  t  Three, ' '  Ann  corrected  him.  ' '  All  but  a  few 
days." 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        255 

"I  wish  you'd  use  your  memory  for  things 
you're  wanted  to  remember/ '  growled  Abner. 

"You  said  you  had  never  asked  her  to  marry 
you,"  pursued  Ann  relentlessly;  "you  wouldn't 
tell  me  why.  You  said  I  shouldn't  under- 
stand." 

"My  fault,"  muttered  Abner.  "I  forget 
you're  a  child.  You  ask  all  sorts  of  questions 
that  never  ought  to  enter  your  head,  and  I'm 
fool  enough  to  answer  you." 

One  small  tear  that  had  made  its  escape 
unnoticed  by  her  was  stealing  down  her  cheek. 
He  wiped  it  away  and  took  one  of  her  small 
paws  in  both  his  hands. 

"I  loved  your  mother  very  dearly,"  he  said 
gravely.  "I  had  loved  her  from  a  child.  But 
no  woman  will  ever  understand  the  power  that 
beauty  has  upon  a  man.  You  see  we're  built 
that  way.  It's  Nature's  lure.  Later  on,  of 
course,  I  might  have  forgotten ;  but  then  it  was 
too  late.    Can  you  forgive  me?" 

"But  you  still  love  her,"  reasoned  Ann 
through  her  tears,  "or  you  wouldn't  want  him 
to  come  here." 


256        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

"She  had  such  a  hard  time  of  it,"  pleaded 
Abner.  "It  made  things  easier  to  her,  my  giv- 
ing her  my  word  that  I  would  always  look  after 
the  boy.    You'll  help  me?" 

"Ill  try,"  said  Ann.  But  there  was  not 
much  promise  in  the  tone. 

Nor  did  Matthew  Pole  himself,  when  he 
arrived,  do  much  to  help  matters.  He  was  so 
hopelessly  English.  At  least,  that  was  the  way 
Ann  put  it.  He  was  shy  and  sensitive.  It  is  a 
trying  combination.  It  made  him  appear  stupid 
and  conceited.  A  lonely  childhood  had  ren- 
dered him  unsociable,  unadaptable.  A  dreamy, 
imaginative  temperament  imposed  upon  him 
long  moods  of  silence :  a  liking  for  long  solitary 
walks.  For  the  first  time  Ann  and  Mrs.  Trav- 
ers  were  in  agreement. 

"A  sulky  young  dog,"  commented  Mrs. 
Travers.  "If  I  were  your  uncle  I'd  look  out 
for  a  job  for  him  in  San  Francisco." 

"You  see,"  said  Ann  in  excuse  for  him,  "it's 
such  a  foggy  country,  England.  It  makes  them 
like  that." 

"It's  a  pity  they  can't  get  out  of  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Travers. 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        257 

Also,  sixteen  is  an  awkward  age  for  a  boy. 
Virtues,  still  in  the  chrysalis  state,  are  strug- 
gling to  escape  from  their  parent  vices.  Pride, 
an  excellent  quality  making  for  courage  and 
patience,  still  appears  in  the  swathings  of 
arrogance.  Sincerity  still  expresses  itself  in 
the  language  of  rudeness.  Kindness  itself  is 
apt  to  be  mistaken  for  amazing  impertinence 
and  love  of  interference. 

It  was  kindness — a  genuine  desire  to  be  use- 
ful, that  prompted  him  to  point  out  to  Ann  her 
undoubted  faults  and  failings,  nerved  him  to 
the  task  of  bringing  her  up  in  the  way  she 
should  go.  Mrs.  Travers  had  long  since  washed 
her  hands  of  the  entire  business.  Uncle  Ab,  as 
Matthew  also  called  him,  had  proved  himself  a 
weakling.  Providence,  so  it  seemed  to  Mat- 
thew, must  have  been  waiting  impatiently  for 
his  advent.  Ann  at  first  thought  it  was  some 
new  school  of  humour.  When  she  found  he  was 
serious  she  set  herself  to  cure  him.  But  she 
never  did.  He  was  too  conscientious  for  that. 
The  instincts  of  the  guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend  to  humanity  in  general  were  already  too 
strong  in  him.    There  were  times  when  Abner 


258        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

almost  wished  that  Matthew  Pole  senior  had 
lived  a  little  longer. 

But  he  did  not  lose  hope.  At  the  back  of  his 
mind  was  the  fancy  that  these  two  children  of 
his  loves  would  come  together.  Nothing  is 
quite  so  sentimental  as  a  healthy  old  bachelor. 
He  pictured  them  making  unity  from  his  con- 
fusions ;  in  imagination  heard  the  patter  on  the 
stairs  of  tiny  feet.  To  all  intents  and  purposes 
he  would  be  a  grandfather.  Priding  himself 
on  his  cunning,  he  kept  his  dream  to  himself, 
as  he  thought,  but  underestimated  Ann's  smart- 
ness. 

For  days  together  she  would  follow  Matthew 
with  her  eyes,  watching  him  from  behind  her 
long  lashes,  listening  in  silence  to  everything 
he  said,  vainly  seeking  to  find  points  in  him. 
He  was  unaware  of  her  generous  intentions. 
He  had  a  vague  feeling  he  was  being  criticised. 
He  resented  it  even  in  those  days. 

"I  do  try,"  said  Ann  suddenly  one  evening 
apropos  of  nothing  at  all.  "No  one  will  ever 
know  how  hard  I  try  not  to  dislike  him." 

Abner  looked  up. 

"Sometimes,"  continued  Ann,  "I  tell  myself 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        259 

I  have  almost  succeeded.  And  then  he  will  go 
and  do  something  that  will  bring  it  all  on 
again. ' ' 

"What  does  he  do?"  asked  Abner. 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you,"  confessed  Ann.  "If 
I  told  you  it  would  sound  as  if  it  was  my  fault. 
It's  all  so  silly.  And  then  he  thinks  such  a  lot 
of  himself.  If  one  only  knew  why!  He  can't 
tell  you  himself  when  you  ask  him." 

"You  have  asked  him?"  queried  Abner. 

"I  wanted  to  know,"  explained  Ann.  "I 
thought  there  might  be  something  in  him  that 
I  could  like." 

"Why  do  you  want  to  like  him?"  asked 
Abner,  wondering  how  much  she  had  guessed. 

"I  know,"  wailed  Ann.  "You  are  hoping 
that  when  I  am  grown  up  I  shall  marry  him. 
And  I  don't  want  to.  It's  so  ungrateful  of 
me." 

"Well,  you're  not  grown  up  yet,"  Abner  con- 
soled her.  "And  so  long  as  you  are  feeling 
like  that  about  it,  I'm  not  likely  to  want  you  to 
marry  him. ' ' 

"It  would  make  you  so  happy,"  sobbed  Ann. 

"Yes,  but  we've  got  to  think  of  the  boy,  don't 


260        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

forget  that,"  laughed  Abner.  " Perhaps  he 
might  object." 

"He  would.  I  know  he  would,"  cried  Ann 
with  conviction.    "He's  no  better  than  I  am." 

"Have  you  been  asking  him  to?"  demanded 
Abner,  springing  up  from  his  chair. 

"Not  to  marry  me,"  explained  Ann.  "But 
I  told  him  he  must  be  an  unnatural  little  beast 
not  to  try  to  like  me  when  he  knew  how  you 
loved  me." 

"Helpful  way  of  putting  it,"  growled  Abner. 
"And  what  did  he  say  to  that!" 

"Admitted  it,"  flashed  Ann  indignantly. 
"Said  he  had  tried." 

Abner  succeeded  in  persuading  her  that  the 
path  of  dignity  and  virtue  lay  in  her  dismissing 
the  whole  subject  from  her  mind. 

He  had  made  a  mistake,  so  he  told  himself. 
Age  may  be  attracted  by  contrast,  but  youth 
has  no  use  for  its  opposite.  He  would  send 
Matthew  away.  He  could  return  for  week-ends. 
Continually  so  close  to  one  another,  they  saw 
only  one  another's  specks  and  flaws;  there  is 
no  beauty  without  perspective.  Matthew 
wanted  the  corners  rubbed  off  him,  that  was 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        261 

all.  Mixing  more  with  men,  his  priggishness 
would  be  laughed  out  of  him.  Otherwise  he  was 
quite  a  decent  youngster,  clean  minded,  high 
principled.  Clever,  too:  he  often  said  quite 
unexpected  things.  With  approaching  woman- 
hood, changes  were  taking  place  in  Ann.  See- 
ing her  every  day  one  hardly  noticed  them; 
but  there  were  times  when,  standing  before  him 
flushed  from  a  walk  or  bending  over  him  to 
kiss  him  before  starting  for  some  friendly 
dance,  Abner  would  blink  his  eyes  and  be  puz- 
zled. The  thin  arms  were  growing  round  and 
firm ;  the  sallow  complexiou  warming  into  olive ; 
the  once  patchy,  mouse-coloured  hair  darkening 
into  a  rich  harmony  of  brown.  The  eyes 
beneath  her  level  brows,  that  had  always 
been  her  charm,  still  reminded  Abner  of  her 
mother ;  but  there  was  more  light  in  them,  more 
danger. 

"I'll  run  down  to  Albany  and  talk  to  Jeph- 
son  about  him,"  decided  Abner.  "He  can  come 
home  on  Saturdays.' ' 

The  plot  might  have  succeeded:  one  never 
can  tell.  But  a  New  York  blizzard  put  a  stop 
to  it.    The  cars  broke  down,  and  Abner,  walk- 


262        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

ing  home  in  thin  shoes  from  a  meeting,  canght 
a  chill,  which,  being  neglected,  proved  fatal. 

Abner  was  troubled  as  he  lay  upon  his  bed. 
The  children  were  sitting  very  silent  by  the 
window.  He  sent  Matthew  out  on  a  message, 
and  then  beckoned  Ann  to  come  to  him.  He 
loved  the  boy,  too,  but  Ann  was  nearer  to  him. 

"You  haven't  thought  any  more/'  he  whis- 
pered, "about " 

"No,"  answered  Ann.  "You  wished  me  not 
to." 

"You  must  never  think,"  he  said,  "to  show 
your  love  for  my  memory  by  doing  anything 
that  would  not  make  you  happy.  If  I  am  any- 
where around, ' '  he  continued  with  a  smile,  ' '  it 
will  be  your  good  I  shall  be  watching  for,  not 
my  own  way.    You  will  remember  that!" 

He  had  meant  to  do  more  for  them,  but  the 
end  had  come  so  much  sooner  than  he  had 
expected.  To  Ann  he  left  the  house  (Mrs. 
Travers  had  already  retired  on  a  small  pen- 
sion) and  a  sum  that,  judiciously  invested,  the 
friend  and  attorney  thought  should  be  sufficient 

for  her  needs,  even  supposing The  friend 

and  attorney,  pausing  to  dwell  upon  the  oval 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        263 

face  with  its  dark  eyes,  left  the  sentence  un- 
finished. 

To  Matthew  he  wrote  a  loving  letter,  enclos- 
ing a  thousand  dollars.  He  knew  that  Matthew, 
now  in  a  position  to  earn  his  living  as  a  jour- 
nalist, would  rather  have  taken  nothing.  It 
was  to  be  looked  upon  merely  as  a  parting  gift. 
Matthew  decided  to  spend  it  on  travel.  It 
would  fit  him  the  better  for  his  journalistic 
career,  so  he  explained  to  Ann.  But  in  his  heart 
he  had  other  ambitions.  It  would  enable  him  to 
put  them  to  the  test. 

So  there  came  an  evening  when  Ann  stood 
waving  a  handkerchief  as  a  great  liner  cast  its 
moorings.  She  watched  it  till  its  lights  grew 
dim,  and  then  returned  to  "West  Twentieth 
Street.  Strangers  would  take  possession  of  it 
on  the  morrow.  Ann  had  her  supper  in  the 
kitchen  in  company  with  the  nurse,  who  had 
stayed  on  at  her  request ;  and  that  night,  slip- 
ping noiselessly  from  her  room,  she  lay  upon 
the  floor,  her  head  resting  against  the  arm  of 
the  chair  where  Abner  had  been  wont  to  sit  and 
smoke  his  evening  pipe ;  somehow  it  seemed  to 
comfort  her.    And  Matthew  the  while,  beneath 


264        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

the  stars,  was  pacing  the  silent  deck  of  the 
great  liner  and  planning  out  the  future. 

To  only  one  other  being  had  he  ever  con- 
fided his  dreams.  She  lay  in  the  churchyard; 
and  there  was  nothing  left  to  encourage  him 
but  his  own  heart.  But  he  had  no  doubts.  He 
would  be  a  great  writer.  His  two  hundred 
pounds  would  support  him  till  he  had  gained  a 
foothold.  After  that  he  would  climb  swiftly. 
He  had  done  right,  so  he  told  himself,  to  turn 
his  back  on  journalism:  the  grave  of  literature. 
He  would  see  men  and  cities,  writing  as  he 
went.  Looking  back,  years  later,  he  was  able 
to  congratulate  himself  on  having  chosen  the 
right  road.  He  thought  it  would  lead  him  by 
easy  ascent  to  fame  and  fortune.  It  did  better 
for  him  than  that.  It  led  him  through  poverty 
and  loneliness,  through  hope  deferred  and 
heartache — though  long  nights  of  fear,  when 
pride  and  confidence  fell  upon  him,  leaving  him 
only  the  courage  to  endure. 

His  great  poems,  his  brilliant  essays,  had 
been  rejected  so  often  that  even  he  himself  had 
lost  all  love  for  them.  At  the  suggestion  of 
an  editor  more  kindly  than  the  general  run, 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        265 

and  urged  by  need,  he  had  written  some  short 
pieces  of  a  less  ambitious  nature.  It  was  in  bit- 
ter disappointment  he  commenced  them,  regard- 
ing them  as  mere  pot-boilers.  He  would  not 
give  them  his  name.  He  signed  them  "  Aston 
Rowant."  It  was  the  name  of  the  village  in 
Oxfordshire  where  he  had  been  born.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  by  chance.  It  would  serve  the 
purpose  as  well  as  another.  As  the  work 
progressed  it  grew  upon  him.  He  made  his 
stories  out  of  incidents  and  people  he  had  seen ; 
everyday  comedies  and  tragedies  that  he  had 
lived  among,  of  things  that  he  had  felt;  and 
when  after  their  appearance  in  the  magazine  a 
publisher  was  found  willing  to  make  them  into 
a  book,  hope  revived  in  him. 

It  was  but  short-lived.  The  few  reviews  that 
reached  him  contained  nothing  but  ridicule. 
So  he  had  no  place  even  as  a  literary  hack ! 

He  was  living  in  Paris  at  the  time  in  a  noisy, 
evil-smelling  street  leading  out  of  the  Quai 
Saint  Michel.  He  thought  of  Chatterton,  and 
would  loaf  on  the  bridges  looking  down  into 
the  river  where  the  drowned  lights  twinkled. 

And  then  one  day  there  came  to  him  a  letter, 


266        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

sent  on  to  him  from  the  publisher  of  his  one 
book.  It  was  signed  "Sylvia,"  nothing  else, 
and  bore  no  address.  Matthew  picked  up  the 
envelope.    The  postmark  was  "London,  S.E." 

It  was  a  childish  letter.  A  prosperous,  well- 
fed  genius,  familiar  with  such,  might  have 
smiled  at  it.  To  Matthew  in  his  despair  it 
brought  healing.  She  had  found  the  book  lying 
in  an  empty  railway  carriage;  and  undeterred 
by  moral  scruples  had  taken  it  home  with  her. 
It  had  remained  forgotten  for  a  time,  until 
when  the  end  really  seemed  to  have  come  her 
hand  by  chance  had  fallen  on  it.  She  fancied 
some  kind  little  wandering  spirit — the  spirit 
perhaps  of  someone  who  had  known  what  it 
was  to  be  lonely  and  very  sad  and  just  about 
broken  almost — must  have  manoeuvred  the 
whole  thing.  It  had  seemed  to  her  as  though 
some  strong  and  gentle  hand  had  been  laid  upon 
her  in  the  darkness.  She  no  longer  felt  friend- 
less.   And  so  on. 

The  book,  he  remembered,  contained  a  refer- 
ence to  the  magazine  in  which  the  sketches  had 
first  appeared.  She  would  be  sure  to  have 
noticed  this.     He  would  send  her  his  answer. 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        267 

He  drew  his  chair  up  to  the  flimsy  table,  and  all 
that  night  he  wrote. 

He  did  not  have  to  think.  It  came  to  him, 
and  for  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of 
things  he  had  no  fear  of  its  not  being  accepted. 
It  was  mostly  about  himself,  and  the  rest  was 
about  her,  but  to  most  of  those  who  read  it  two 
months  later  it  seemed  to  be  about  themselves. 
The  editor  wrote  a  charming  letter,  thanking 
him  for  it;  but  at  the  time  the  chief  thing  that 
worried  him  was  whether  "  Sylvia' '  had  seen  it. 
He  waited  anxiously  for  a  few  weeks,  and  then 
received  her  second  letter.  It  was  a  more 
womanly  letter  than  the  first.  She  had  under- 
stood the  story,  and  her  words  of  thanks  almost 
conveyed  to  him  the  flush  of  pleasure  with 
which  she  had  read  it.  His  friendship,  she  con- 
fessed, would  be  very  sweet  to  her,  and  still 
more  delightful  the  thought  that  he  had  need 
of  her:  that  she  also  had  something  to  give. 
She  would  write,  as  he  wished,  her  real  thoughts 
and  feelings.  They  would  never  know  one 
another,  and  that  would  give  her  boldness. 
They  would  be  comrades,  meeting  only  in 
dreamland. 


268        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

In  this  way  commenced  the  whimsical  ro- 
mance of  Sylvia  and  Aston  Rowant ;  for  it  was 
too  late  now  to  change  the  name — it  had  become 
a  name  to  conjure  with.  The  stories,  poems, 
and  essays  followed  now  in  regular  succession. 
The  anxiously  expected  letters  reached  him  in 
orderly  procession.  They  grew  in  interest,  in 
helpfulness.  They  became  the  letters  of  a 
wonderfully  sane,  broad-minded,  thoughtful 
woman — a  woman  of  insight,  of  fine  judgment. 
Their  praise  was  rare  enough  to  be  precious. 
Often  they  would  contain  just  criticism,  tem- 
pered by  sympathy,  lightened  by  humour.  Of 
her  troubles,  sorrows,  fears,  she  came  to  write 
less  and  less,  and  even  then  not  until  they  were 
past  and  she  could  laugh  at  them.  The  subtlest 
flattery  she  gave  him  was  the  suggestion  that 
he  had  taught  her  to  put  these  things  into  their 
proper  place.  Intimate,  self-revealing  as  her 
letters  were,  it  was  curious  he  never  shaped 
from  them  any  satisfactory  image  of  the  writer. 

A  brave,  kind,  tender  woman.  A  self- 
forgetting,  quickly  forgiving  woman.  A  many- 
sided  woman,  responding  to  joy,  to  laughter: 
a  merry  lady,  at  times.     Yet  by  no  means  a 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        269 

perfect  woman.  There  could  be  flashes  of 
temper,  one  felt  that;  quite  often  occasional 
unreasonableness;  a  tongue  that  could  be  cut- 
ting. A  sweet,  restful,  greatly  loving  woman, 
but  still  a  woman :  it  would  be  wise  to  remember 
that.  So  he  read  her  from  her  letters.  But 
herself,  the  eyes,  and  hair,  and  lips  of  her,  the 
voice  and  laugh  and  smile  of  her,  the  hands  and 
feet  of  her,  always  they  eluded  him. 

He  was  in  Alaska  one  spring,  where  he  had 
gone  to  collect  material  for  his  work,  when  he 
received  the  last  letter  she  ever  wrote  him. 
They  neither  of  them  knew  then  it  would  be 
the  last.  She  was  leaving  London,  so  the  post- 
script informed  him,  sailing  on  the  following 
Saturday  for  New  York,  where  for  the  future 
she  intended  to  live. 

It  worried  him  that  postscript.  He  could  not 
make  out  for  a  long  time  why  it  worried  him. 
Suddenly,  in  a  waste  of  endless  snows,  the 
explanation  flashed  across  him.  Sylvia  of  the 
letters  was  a  living  woman !  She  could  travel — 
with  a  box,  he  supposed,  possibly  with  two  or 
three,  and  parcels.    Could  take  tickets,  walk  up 


270        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

a  gangway,  stagger  about  a  deck  feeling, 
maybe,  a  little  seasick.  All  these  years  he  had 
been  living  with  her  in  dreamland  she  had  been, 
if  he  had  only  known  it,  a  Miss  Somebody-or- 
other,  who  must  have  stood  every  morning  in 
front  of  a  looking-glass  with  hairpins  in  her 
mouth.  He  had  never  thought  of  her  doing 
these  things ;  it  shocked  him.  He  could  not  help 
feeling  it  was  indelicate  of  her — coming  to  life 
in  this  sudden,  uncalled-for  manner. 

He  struggled  with  his  new  conception  of  her, 
and  had  almost  forgiven  her,  when  a  further 
and  still  more  startling  suggestion  arrived  to 
plague  him.  If  she  really  lived  why  should  he 
not  see  her,  speak  to  her?  So  long  as  she  had 
remained  in  her  hidden  temple,  situate  in  the 
vague  recesses  of  London,  S.E.,  her  letters  had 
contented  him.  But  now  that  she  had  moved, 
now  that  she  was  no  longer  a  voice  but  a 
woman!  "Well,  it  would  be  interesting  to  see 
what  she  was  like.  He  imagined  the  introduc- 
tion: "Miss  Somebody-or-other,  allow  me  to 
present  you  to  Mr.  Matthew  Pole."  She  would 
have  no  idea  he  was  Aston  Rowant.  If  she  hap- 
pened to  be  young,  beautiful,  in  all  ways  satis- 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        271 

factory,  he  would  announce  himself.  How 
astonished,  how  delighted  she  would  be. 

But  if  not!  If  she  were  elderly,  plain!  The 
wisest,  wittiest  of  women  have  been  known  to 
have  an  incipient  moustache.  A  beautiful  spirit 
can,  and  sometimes  does,  look  out  of  goggle 
eyes.  Suppose  she  suffered  from  indigestion 
and  had  a  shiny  nose !  Would  her  letters  ever 
again  have  the  same  charm  for  him!  Absurd 
that  they  should  not.     But  would  they! 

The  risk  was  too  great.  Giving  the  matter 
long  and  careful  consideration,  he  decided  to 
send  her  back  into  dreamland. 

But  somehow  she  would  not  go  back  into 
dreamland,  would  persist  in  remaining  in  New 
York,  a  living,  breathing  woman. 

Yet  even  so,  how  could  he  find  her!  He 
might,  say,  in  a  poem  convey  to  her  his  desire 
for  a  meeting.  Would  she  comply!  And  if  she 
did,  what  would  be  his  position,  supposing  the 
inspection  to  result  unfavourably  for  her! 
Could  he,  in  effect,  say  to  her:  " Thank  you  for 
letting  me  have  a  look  at  you;  that  is  all  I 
wanted.     Good-bye  V9 

She  must,  she  should  remain  in  dreamland. 


272        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

He  would  forget  her  postscript ;  in  future  throw 
her  envelopes  unglanced  at  into  the  wastepaper 
basket.  Having  by  this  simple  exercise  of  his 
will  replaced  her  in  London,  he  himself  started 
for  New  York — on  his  way  back  to  Europe,  so 
he  told  himself.  Still,  being  in  New  York,  there 
was  no  reason  for  not  lingering  there  a  while, 
if  merely  to  renew  old  memories. 

Of  course,  if  he  had  really  wanted  to  find 
Sylvia  it  would  have  been  easy  from  the  date 
upon  the  envelope  to  have  discovered  the  ship 
"sailing  the  following  Saturday.' '  Passengers 
were  compelled  to  register  their  names  in  full, 
and  to  state  their  intended  movements  after 
arrival  in  America.  Sylvia  was  not  a  common 
Christian  name.     By  the  help  of  a  five-dollar 

bill  or  two .    The  idea  had  not  occurred  to 

him  before.  He  dismissed  it  from  his  mind  and 
sought  a  quiet  hotel  up  town. 

New  York  was  changed  less  than  he  had 
anticipated.  West  Twentieth  Street  in  par- 
ticular was  precisely  as,  leaning  out  of  the  cab 
window,  he  had  looked  back  upon  it  ten  years 
ago.    Business  had  more  and  more  taken  pos- 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        273 

session  of  it,  but  had  not  as  yet  altered  its 
appearance.  His  conscience  smote  him  as  he 
turned  the  corner  that  he  had  never  once  writ- 
ten to  Ann.  He  had  meant  to,  it  goes  without 
saying,  but  during  those  first  years  of  struggle 
and  failure  his  pride  had  held  him  back.  She 
had  always  thought  him  a  fool ;  he  had  felt  she 
did.  He  would  wait  till  he  could  write  to  her 
of  success,  of  victory.    And  then  when  it  had 

slowly,  almost  imperceptibly,  arrived !    He 

wondered  why  he  never  had.  Quite  a  nice  little 
girl,  in  some  respects.  If  only  she  had  been 
less  conceited,  less  self-willed.  Also  rather  a 
pretty  girl  she  had  shown  signs  of  becoming. 

There   were   times .     He    remembered   an 

evening  before  the  lamps  were  lighted.  She 
had  fallen  asleep  curled  up  in  Abner's  easy 
chair,  one  small  hand  resting  upon  the  arm. 
She  had  always  had  quite  attractive  hands — a 
little  too  thin.  Something  had  moved  him  to 
steal  across  softly  without  waking  her.  He 
smiled  at  the  memory. 

And  then  her  eyes,  beneath  the  level  brow! 
It  was  surprising  how  Ann  was  coming  back  to 


274        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

him.  Perhaps  they  would  be  able  to  tell  him, 
the  people  of  the  house,  what  had  become  of 
her.  If  they  were  decent  people  they  would  let 
him  wander  round  a  while.  He  would  explain 
that  he  had  lived  there  in  Abner  Herrick's  time. 
The  room  where  they  had  sometimes  been 
agreeable  to  one  another  while  Abner,  pretend- 
ing to  read,  had  sat  watching  them  out  of  the 
corner  of  an  eye.  He  would  like  to  sit  there  for 
a  few  moments,  by  himself. 

He  forgot  that  he  had  rung  the  bell.  A  very 
young  servant  had  answered  the  door  and  was 
staring  at  him.  He  would  have  walked  in  if 
the  small  servant  had  not  planted  herself  delib- 
erately in  his  way.    It  recalled  him  to  himself. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Matthew,  "but  would 
you  please  tell  me  who  lives  here?" 

The  small  servant  looked  him  up  and  down 
with  growing  suspicion. 

"Miss  Kavanagh  lives  here,"  she  said. 
"What  do  you  want?" 

The  surprise  was  so  great  it  rendered  him 
speechless.  In  another  moment  the  small  ser- 
vant would  have  slammed  the  door. 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        275 

"Miss  Ann  Kavanagh?"  he  inquired  just  in 
time. 

"That's  her  name,"  admitted  the  small  ser- 
vant, less  suspicious. 

"Will  you  please  tell  her  Mr.  Pole— Mr.  Mat- 
thew Pole,"  he  requested. 

"Til  see  first  if  she  is  in,"  said  the  small 
servant,  and  shut  the  door. 

It  gave  Matthew  a  few  minutes  to  recover 
himself,  for  which  he  was  glad.  Then  the  door 
opened  again  suddenly. 

"You  are  to  come  upstairs,"  said  the  small 
servant. 

It  sounded  so  like  Ann  that  it  quite  put  him 
at  his  ease.  He  followed  the  small  servant  up 
the  stairs. 

"Mr.  Matthew  Pole,"  she  announced  se- 
verely, and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Ann  was  standing  by  the  window  and  came  to 
meet  him.  It  was  in  front  of  Abner's  empty 
chair  that  they  shook  hands. 

"So  you  have  come  back  to  the  old  house," 
said  Matthew. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "It  never  let  well. 
The   last  people   who   had  it   gave   it  up   at 


276        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

Christmas.  It  seemed  the  best  thing  to  do,  even 
from  a  purely  economical  point  of  view. 

< '  What  have  yon  been  doing  all  these  years  ? ' ' 
she  asked  him. 

' '  Oh,  knocking  about, ' '  he  answered.  ' '  Earn- 
ing my  living.,,  He  was  curious  to  discover 
what  she  thought  of  Matthew,  first  of  all. 

"It  seems  to  have  agreed  with  you,"  she 
commented,  with  a  glance  that  took  him  in  gen- 
erally, including  his  clothes. 

* '  Yes, ' '  he  answered.  ' '  I  have  had  more  luck 
than  perhaps  I  deserved.' ' 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Ann. 

He  laughed.  "So  you  haven't  changed  so 
very  much, ' '  he  said.    i l  Except  in  appearance. ' ' 

"Isn't  that  the  most  important  part  of  a 
woman!"  suggested  Ann. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  thinking.  "I  suppose 
it  is." 

She  was  certainly  very  beautiful. 

"How  long  are  you  stopping  in  New  York?" 
she  asked  him. 

6 '  Oh,  not  long, ' '  he  explained. 

"Don't  leave  it  for  another  ten  years,"  she 
said,  "before  letting  me  know  what  is  happen- 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        277 

ing  to  you.  We  didn't  get  on  very  well  together 
as  children;  but  we  mustn't  let  him  think  we're 
not  friends.    It  would  hurt  him." 

She  spoke  quite  seriously,  as  if  she  were 
expecting  him  any  moment  to  open  the  door 
and  join  them.  Involuntarily  Matthew  glanced 
round  the  room.  Nothing  seemed  altered.  The 
worn  carpet,  the  faded  curtains,  Abner's  easy 
chair,  his  pipe  upon  the  corner  of  the  mantel- 
piece beside  the  vase  of  spills. 

"It  is  curious,"  he  said,  "finding  this  vein 
of  fancy,  of  tenderness  in  you.  I  always 
regarded  you  as  such  a  practical,  unsentimental 
young  person." 

"Perhaps  we  neither  of  us  knew  each  other 
too  well,  in  those  days,"  she  answered. 

The  small  servant  entered  with  the  tea. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself?" 
he  asked,  drawing  his  chair  up  to  the  table. 

She  waited  till  the  small  servant  had  with- 
drawn. 

' i  Oh,  knocking  about, ' '  she  answered.  * '  Earn- 
ing my  living. ' ' 

"It  seems  to  have  agreed  with  you,"  he 
repeated,  smiling. 


278        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

"It's  all  right  now,"  she  answered.  "It  was 
a  bit  of  a  struggle  at  first." 

1 i  Yes, ' '  he  agreed.  ' l  Life  doesn 't  temper  the 
wind  to  the  human  lamb.  But  was  there  any 
need  in  your  case  1 ' '  he  asked.  ' '  I  thought ' ' 

i '  Oh,  that  all  went, ' '  she  explained.  '  *  Except 
the  house." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Matthew.  "I  didn't 
know. ' ' 

"Oh,  we  have  been  a  couple  of  prigs,"  she 
laughed,  replying  to  his  thoughts.  "I  did  some- 
times think  of  writing  you.  I  kept  the  address 
you  gave  me.  Not  for  any  assistance ;  I  wanted 
to  fight  it  out  for  myself.  But  I  was  a  bit 
lonely. ' ' 

"Why  didn't  you?"  he  asked. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"It's  rather  soon  to  make  up  one's 
mind,"  she  said,  "but  you  seem  to  me 
to  have  changed.  Your  voice  sounds  so 
different.  But  as  a  boy — well,  you  were 
a  bit  of  a  prig,  weren't  you?  I  imag- 
ined you  were  writing  me  good  advice  and  excel- 
lent short  sermons.  And  it  wasn't  that  that 
I  was  wanting." 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        279 

"I  think  I  understand/'  he  said.  "I'm  glad 
you  got  through. ' ' 

"What  is  your  line!"  he  asked.  "Journal- 
ism!" 

"No,"  she  answered.  "Too  self-opinion- 
ated." 

She  opened  a  bureau  that  had  always  been 
her  own  and  handed  him  a  programme.  '  *  Miss 
Ann  Kavanagh,  Contralto,"  was  announced  on 
it  as  one  of  the  chief  attractions. 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  a  voice,"  said  Mat- 
thew. 

"You  used  to  complain  of  it,"  she  reminded 
him. 

"Your  speaking  voice,"  he  corrected  her. 
"And  it  wasn't  the  quality  of  that  I  objected  to. 
It  was  the  quantity." 

She  laughed. 

"Yes,  we  kept  ourselves  pretty  busy  bring- 
ing one  another  up, ' '  she  admitted. 

They  talked  a  while  longer:  of  Abner  and 
his  kind,  quaint  ways ;  of  old  friends.  Ann  had 
lost  touch  with  most  of  them.  She  had  studied 
singing  in  Brussels,  and  afterward  her  master 
had  moved  to  London  and  she  had  followed 


280        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

him.  She  had  only  just  lately  returned  to  New 
York. 

The  small  servant  entered  to  clear  away  the 
tea  things.  She  said  she  thought  that  Ann  had 
rung.  Her  tone  implied  that  anyhow  it  was 
time  she  had.  Matthew  rose  and  Ann  held  out 
her  hand. 

"I  shall  be  at  the  concert,' '  he  said. 

"It  isn't  till  next  week,"  Ann  reminded 
him. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  in  any  particular  hurry,"  said 
Matthew.  "Are  you  generally  in  of  an  after- 
noon?" 

"Sometimes,"  said  Ann. 

He  thought  as  he  sat  watching  her  from  his 
stall  that  she  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
women  he  had  ever  seen.  Her  voice  was  not 
great.  She  had  warned  him  not  to  expect  too 
much. 

"It  will  never  set  the  Thames  on  fire,"  she 
had  said.  ' i  I  thought  at  first  that  it  would.  But 
such  as  it  is  I  thank  God  for  it." 

It  was  worth  that.  It  was  sweet  and  clear 
and  had  a  tender  quality. 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        281 

Matthew  waited  for  her  at  the  end.  She  was 
feeling  well  disposed  towards  all  creatures  and 
accepted  his  suggestion  of  supper  with  gracious 
condescension. 

He  had  called  on  her  once  or  twice  during  the 
preceding  days.  It  was  due  to  her  after  his 
long  neglect  of  her,  he  told  himself,  and  had 
found  improvement  in  her.  But  to-night  she 
seemed  to  take  a  freakish  pleasure  in  letting 
him  see  that  there  was  much  of  the  old  Ann  still 
left  in  her :  the  frank  conceit  of  her ;  the  amaz- 
ing self-opinionatedness  of  her;  the  wayward- 
ness, the  wilfulness,  the  unreasonableness  of 
her;  the  general  uppishness  and  dictatorial- 
ness  of  her;  the  contradictoriness  and  flat 
impertinence  of  her ;  the  swift  temper  and  exas- 
perating tongue  of  her. 

It  was  almost  as  if  she  were  warning  him. 
"  You  see,  I  am  not  changed,  except,  as  you  say, 
in  appearance.  I  am  still  Ann  with  all  the  old 
faults  and  failings  that  once  made  life  in  the 
same  house  with  me  a  constant  trial  to  you. 
Just  now  my  very  imperfections  appear  charms. 
You  have  been  looking  at  the  sun — at  the  glory 
of  my  face,  at  the  wonder  of  my  arms  and 


282        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

hands.  Your  eyes  are  blinded.  But  that  will 
pass.  And  underneath  I  am  still  Ann.  Just 
Ann." 

They  had  quarrelled  in  the  cab  on  the  way 
home.  He  forgot  what  it  was  about,  but  Ann 
had  said  some  quite  rude  things,  and  her  face 
not  being  there  in  the  darkness  to  excuse  her,  it 
had  made  him  very  angry.  She  had  laughed 
again  on  the  steps,  and  they  had  shaken  hands. 
But  walking  home  through  the  still  streets  Syl- 
via had  plucked  at  his  elbow. 

What  fools  we  mortals  be — especially  men! 
Here  was  a  noble  woman — a  restful,  under- 
standing, tenderly  loving  woman;  a  woman  as 
nearly  approaching  perfection  as  it  was  safe 
for  a  woman  to  go!  This  marvellous  woman 
was  waiting  for  him  with  outstretched  arms 
(why  should  he  doubt  it?) — and  just  because 
Nature  had  at  last  succeeded  in  making  a  tem- 
porary success  of  Ann's  skin  and  had  fashioned 
a  rounded  line  above  her  shoulder  blade!  It 
made  him  quite  cross  with  himself.  Ten  years 
ago  she  had  been  gawky  and  sallow-complex- 
ioned.  Ten  years  hence  she  might  catch  the 
yellow  jaundice  and  lose  it  all.     Passages  in 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        283 

Sylvia's  letters  returned  to  him.  He  remem- 
bered that  far-off  evening  in  his  Paris  attic 
when  she  had  knocked  at  his  door  with  her  great 
gift  of  thanks.  Recalled  how  her  soft  shadow 
hand  had  stilled  his  pain.  He  spent  the  next 
two  days  with  Sylvia.  He  re-read  all  her  let- 
ters, lived  again  the  scenes  and  moods  in  which 
he  had  replied  to  them. 

Her  personality  still  defied  the  efforts  of  his 
imagination,  but  he  ended  by  convincing  him- 
self that  he  would  know  her  when  he  saw  her. 
But  counting  up  the  women  on  Fifth  Avenue 
towards  whom  he  had  felt  instinctively  drawn, 
and  finding  that  the  number  had  already 
reached  eleven,  began  to  doubt  his  intuition. 
On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  he  met  Ann  by 
chance  in  a  bookseller's  shop.  Her  back  was 
towards  him.  She  was  glancing  through  Aston 
Rowant's  latest  volume. 

"What  I,"  said  the  cheerful  young  lady  who 
was  attending  to  her,  "like  about  him  is  that 
he  understands  women  so  well.,, 

"What  I  like  about  him,,,  said  Ann,  "is  that 
he  doesn't  pretend  to." 

"There's   something  in  that,"   agreed  the 


284        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

cheerful  young  lady.  "They  say  he's  here  in 
New  York." 

Ann  looked  up. 

"So  I've  been  told,"  said  the  cheerful  young 
lady. 

"I  wonder  what  he's  like?"  said  Ann. 

"He  wrote  for  a  long  time  under  another 
name,"  volunteered  the  cheerful  young  lady. 
"He's  quite  an  elderly  man." 

It  irritated  Matthew.  He  spoke  without 
thinking. 

1 '  No,  he  isn  't, ' '  he  said.  "  He 's  quite  young. ' ' 

The  ladies  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"You  know  him?"  queried  Ann.  She  was 
most  astonished,  and  appeared  disbelieving. 
That  irritated  him  further. 

"If  you  care  about  it,"  he  said.  "I  will 
introduce  you  to  him." 

Ann  made  no  answer.  He  bought  a  copy  of 
the  book  himself,  and  they  went  out  together. 
They  turned  towards  the  park. 

Ann  seemed  thoughtful.  "What  is  he  doing 
here  in  New  York?"  she  wondered. 

"Looking  for  a  lady  named  Sylvia,"  an- 
swered Matthew. 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        285 

He  thought  the  time  was  come  to  break  it  to 
her  that  he  was  a  great  and  famous  man.  Then 
perhaps  she  would  be  sorry  she  had  said  what 
she  had  said  in  the  cab.  Seeing  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  that  his  relationship  to  her  in  the 
future  would  be  that  of  an  affectionate  brother, 
there  would  be  no  harm  in  also  letting  her  know 
about  Sylvia.    That  also  might  be  good  for  her. 

They  walked  two  blocks  before  Ann  spoke. 
Matthew,  anticipating  a  pleasurable  conversa- 
tion, felt  no  desire  to  hasten  matters. 

"How  intimate  are  you  with  him?"  she 
demanded.  "I  don't  think  he  would  have  said 
that  to  a  mere  acquaintance. ' ' 

"I'm  not  a  mere  acquaintance, ' '  said  Mat- 
thew.   "I've  known  him  a  long  time. ' ' 

"You  never  told  me,"  complained  Ann. 

"Didn't  know  it  would  interest  you,"  replied 
Matthew. 

He  waited  for  further  questions,  but  they 
did  not  come.  At  Thirty-fourth  Street  he  saved 
her  from  being  run  over  and  killed,  and  again 
at  Forty-second  Street.  Just  inside  the  park 
she  stopped  abruptly  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Tell  him,"  she  replied,  "that  if  he  is  really 


286        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

serious  about  finding  Sylvia,  I  may — I  don't 
say  I  can — but  I  may  be  able  to  help  him." 

He  did  not  take  her  hand,  but  stood  stock  still 
in  the  middle  of  the  path  and  stared  at  her. 

"You!"  he  said.    "You  know  her?" 

She  was  prepared  for  his  surprise.  She  was 
also  prepared — not  with  a  lie,  that  implies  evil 
intention.  Her  only  object  was  to  have  a  talk 
with  the  gentleman  and  see  what  he  was  like 
before  deciding  on  her  future  proceedings — let 
us  say,  with  a  plausible  story. 

"We  crossed  on  the  same  boat,"  she  said. 
"We  found  there  was  a  good  deal  of  common 
between  us.  She — she  told  me  things. ' '  When 
you  came  to  think  it  out  it  was  almost  the  truth. 

"What  is  she  like?"  demanded  Matthew. 

"Oh,  just — well,  not  exactly "    It  was  an 

awkward  question.  There  came  to  her  relief 
the  reflection  that  there  was  really  no  need  for 
her  to  answer  it. 

"What's  it  got  to  do  with  you?"  she  said. 

"I  am  Aston  Rowant,"  said  Matthew. 

The  Central  Park,  together  with  the  universe 
in  general,  fell  away  and  disappeared.  Some- 
where out  of  chaos  was  sounding  a  plaintive 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        287 

voice:  "What  is  she  like?  Can't  you  tell  me? 
Is  she  young  or  old?" 

It  seemed  to  have  been  going  on  for  ages. 
She  made  one  supreme  gigantic  effort,  causing 
the  Central  Park  to  reappear,  dimly,  faintly, 
but  it  was  there  again.  She  was  sitting  on  a 
seat.  Matthew — Aston  Rowant,  whatever  it 
was — was  seated  beside  her. 

"You've  seen  her?    What  is  she  like?" 

"I  can't  tell  you." 

He  was  evidently  very  cross  with  her.  It 
seemed  so  unkind  of  him. 

"Why  can't  you  tell  me — or,  why  won't  you 
tell  me?  Do  you  mean  she's  too  awful  'for 
words?" 

"No,  certainly  not — as  a  matter  of  fact " 

"Well,  what?" 

She  felt  she  must  get  away  or  there  would 
be  hysterics  somewhere.  She  sprang  up  and 
began  to  walk  rapidly  towards  the  gate.  He 
followed  her. 

"I'll  write  you,"  said  Ann. 

"But  why ?" 

' ' I  can 't, ' '  said  Ann.    "  I've  got  a  rehearsal. ' ' 

A  car  was  passing.    She  made  a  dash  for  it 


288        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

and  clambered  on.  Before  he  conld  make  up  his 
mind  it  had  gathered  speed. 

Ann  let  herself  in  with  her  key.  She  called 
downstairs  to  the  small  servant  that  she  wasn't 
to  be  disturbed  for  anything.  She  locked  the 
door. 

So  it  was  to  Matthew  that  for  six  years  she 
had  been  pouring  out  her  inmost  thoughts  and 
feelings.  It  was  to  Matthew  that  she  had  laid 
bare  her  tenderest,  most  sacred  dreams!  It 
was  at  Matthew's  feet  that  for  six  years  she 
had  been  sitting,  gazing  up  with  respectful 
admiration,  with  reverential  devotion!  She 
recalled  her  letters,  almost  passage  for  pas- 
sage, till  she  had  to  hold  her  hands  to  her  face 
to  cool  it.  Her  indignation,  one  might  almost 
say  fury,  lasted  till  tea-time. 

In  the  evening — it  was  in  the  evening  time 
that  she  had  always  written  to  him — a  more 
reasonable  frame  of  mind  asserted  itself. 
After  all,  it  was  hardly  his  fault.  He  couldn't 
have  known  who  she  was.  He  didn't  know  now. 
She  had  wanted  to  write.  Without  doubt  he 
had  helped  her,  comforted  her  loneliness ;  had 
given  her  a  charming  friendship,  a  delightful 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        289 

comradeship.  Much  of  his  work  had  been  writ- 
ten for  her,  to  her.  It  was  fine  work.  She  had 
been  proud  of  her  share  in  it.  Even  allowing 
there  were  faults — irritability,  shortness  of 
temper,  a  tendency  of  bossiness! — underneath 
it  all  was  a  man.  The  gallant  struggle,  the  dif- 
ficulties overcome,  the  long  suffering,  the  high 
courage — all  that  she,  reading  between  the 
lines,  had  divined  of  his  life's  battle!  Yes,  it 
was  a  man  she  had  worshipped.  A  woman 
need  not  be  ashamed  of  that.  As  Matthew  he 
had  seemed  to  her  conceited,  priggish.  As 
Aston  Rowant  she  wondered  at  his  modesty, 
his  patience. 

And  all  these  years  he  had  been  dreaming 
of  her ;  had  followed  her  to  New  York ;  had 

There  came  a  sudden  mood  so  ludicrous,  so 
absurdly  unreasonable  that  Ann  herself  stopped 
to  laugh  at  it.  Yet  it  was  real,  and  it  hurt.  He 
had  come  to  New  York  thinking  of  Sylvia, 
yearning  for  Sylvia.  He  had  come  to  New  York 
with  one  desire:  to  find  Sylvia.  And  the  first 
pretty  woman  that  had  come  across  his  path 
had  sent  Sylvia  clean  out  of  his  head.  There 
could  be  no  question  of  that.    When  Ann  Kav- 


290        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

anagh  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him  in  that 
very  room  a  fortnight  ago  he  had  stood  before 
her  dazzled,  captured.  From  that  moment  Syl- 
via had  been  tossed  aside  and  forgotten.  Ann 
Kavanagh  could  have  done  what  she  liked  with 
him.  She  had  quarrelled  with  him  that  even- 
ing of  the  concert.  She  had  meant  to  quarrel 
with  him. 

And  then  for  the  first  time  he  had  remem- 
bered Sylvia.  That  was  her  reward — Sylvia's: 
it  was  Sylvia  she  was  thinking  of — for  six 
years'  devoted  friendship;  for  the  help,  the 
inspiration  she  had  given  him. 

As  Sylvia,  she  suffered  from  a  very  genuine 
and  explainable  wave  of  indignant  jealousy. 
As  Ann,  she  admitted  he  ought  not  to  have  done 
it,  but  felt  there  was  excuse  for  him.  Between 
the  two  she  feared  her  mind  would  eventually 
give  way.  On  the  morning  of  the  second  day 
she  sent  Matthew  a  note  asking  him  to  call  in 
the  afternoon.  Sylvia  might  be  there  or  she 
might  not.    She  would  mention  it  to  her. 

She  dressed  herself  in  a  quiet,  dark-coloured 
frock.  It  seemed  uncommittal  and  suitable  to 
the  occasion.    It  also  happened  to  be  the  colour, 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        291 

that  best  suited  her.     She  would  not  have  the 
lamps  lighted. 

Matthew  arrived  in  a  dark  serge  suit  and  a 
blue  necktie,  so  that  the  general  effect  was 
quiet.  Ann  greeted  him  with  kindliness  and  put 
him  with  his  face  to  what  little  light  there  was. 
She  chose  for  herself  the  window-seat.  Sylvia 
had  not  arrived.  She  might  be  a  little  late — 
that  is,  if  she  came  at  all. 

They  talked  about  the  weather  for  a  while. 
Matthew  was  of  opinion  they  were  going  to  have 
some  rain.  Ann,  who  was  in  one  of  her  con- 
tradictory moods,  thought  there  was  frost  in 
the  air. 

"What  did  you  say  to  her?"  he  asked. 

"Sylvia!  Oh,  what  you  told  me,"  replied 
Ann.  "That  you  had  come  to  New  York  to — to 
look  for  her." 

"What  did  she  say!"  he  asked. 

"Said  you'd  taken  your  time  about  it," 
retorted  Ann. 

Matthew  looked  up  with  an  injured  expres- 
sion. 

"It  was  her  own  idea  that  we  should  never 
meet,"  he  explained. 


292        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 


1 '  Um ! ' '  Ann  grunted. 

"What  do  you  think  yourself  she  will  be 
like?"  she  continued.  "Have  you  formed  any 
notion?" 

"It  is  curious,"  he  replied.  "I  have  never 
been  able  to  conjure  up  any  picture  of  her  until 
just  now." 

"Why  'just  now'?"  demanded  Ann. 

"I  had  an  idea  I  should  find  her  here  when 
I  opened  the  door,"  he  answered.  "You  were 
standing  in  the  shadow.  It  seemed  to  be  just 
what  I  had  expected." 

"You  would  have  been  satisfied?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"Uncle  Ab  made  a  mistake,"  he  continued. 
' '  He  ought  to  have  sent  me  away.  Let  me  come 
home  now  and  then. ' ' 

"You  mean,"  said  Ann,  "that  if  you  had 
seen  less  of  me  you  might  have  liked  me  bet- 
ter?" 

"Quite  right,"  he  admitted.  "We  never  see 
the  things  that  are  always  there." 

"A  thin,  gawky  girl  with  a  bad  complexion," 


SYLVIA  OP  THE  LETTERS        293 

she  suggested.  "  Would  it  have  been  of  any 
use!" 

"  You  must  always  have  been  wonderful  with 
those  eyes,"  he  answered.  "And  your  hands 
were  beautiful  even  then. ' ' 

"I  used  to  cry  sometimes  when  I  looked  at 
myself  in  the  glass  as  a  child/ '  she  confessed. 
"My  hands  were  the  only  thing  that  consoled 
me." 

"I  kissed  them  once,"  he  told  her.  "You 
were  asleep,  curled  up  in  Uncle  Ab's  chair." 

"I  wasn't  asleep,"  said  Ann. 

She  was  seated  with  one  foot  tucked  under- 
neath her.    She  didn't  look  a  bit  grown  up. 

* '  You  always  thought  me  a  fool, ' '  he  said. 

"It  used  to  make  me  so  angry  with  you," 
said  Ann,  "that  you  seemed  to  have  no  go,  no 
ambition  in  you.  I  wanted  you  to  wake  up — do 
something.  If  I  had  known  you  were  a  bud- 
ding genius " 

' i  I  did  hint  it  to  you, ' '  said  he. 

' '  Oh,  of  course  it  was  all  my  fault, ' '  said  Ann. 

He  rose.  "You  think  she  means  to  come?" 
he  asked.    Ann  also  had  risen. 


294        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

"Is  she  so  very  wonderf ul ! ' '  she  asked. 

"I  may  be  exaggerating  to  myself,' '  he 
answered.  ' '  But  I  am  not  sure  that  I  could  go 
on  with  my  work  without  her — not  now." 

"You  forgot  her,"  flashed  Ann,  "till  we  hap- 
pened to  quarrel  in  the  cab." 

' '  I  often  do, ' '  he  confessed.  ' '  Till  something 
goes  wrong.  Then  she  comes  to  me.  As  she 
did  on  that  first  evening,  six  years  ago.  You 
see,  I  have  been  more  or  less  living  with  her 
since  then, ' '  he  added  with  a  smile. 

"In  dreamland,"  Ann  corrected. 

"Yes,  but  in  my  case,"  he  answered,  "the 
best  part  of  my  life  is  passed  in  dreamland." 

"And  when  you  are  not  in  dreamland?"  she 
demanded.  "When  you're  just  irritable,  short- 
tempered,  cranky  Matthew  Pole.  What's  she 
going  to  do  about  you  then?" 

' '  She  '11  put  up  with  me, ' '  said  Matthew. 

"No  she  won't,"  said  Ann.  "She'll  snap 
your  head  off.  Most  of  the  ' putting  up  with' 
you'll  have  to  do." 

He  tried  to  get  between  her  and  the  window, 
but  she  kept  her  face  close  to  the  pane. 

"You  make  me  tired  with  Sylvia,"  she  said. 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        295 

"It's  about  time  you  did  know  what  she's  like. 
She's  just  the  commonplace,  short-tempered, 
disagreeable-if-she-cloesn't-get-her-own  -way  un- 
reasonable woman.    Only  more  so." 

He  drew  her  away  from  the  window  by  brute 
force. 

"So  you're  Sylvia,"  he  said. 

"I  thought  that  would  get  it  into  your  head," 
said  Ann. 

It  was  not  at  all  the  way  she  had  meant  to 
break  it  to  him.  She  had  meant  the  conversa- 
tion to  be  chiefly  about  Sylvia.  She  had  a  high 
opinion  of  Sylvia,  a  much  higher  opinion  than 
she  had  of  Ann  Kavanagh.  If  he  proved  to  be 
worthy  of  her — of  Sylvia,  that  is,  then,  with  the 
whimsical  smile  that  she  felt  belonged  to  Syl- 
via, she  would  remark  quite  simply,  "Well, 
what  have  you  got  to  say  to  her?" 

What  had  happened  to  interfere  with  the  pro- 
gramme was  Ann  Kavanagh.  It  seemed  that 
Ann  Kavanagh  had  disliked  Matthew  Pole  less 
than  she  had  thought  she  did.  It  was  after  he 
had  sailed  away  that  little  Ann  Kavanagh  had 
discovered  this.  If  only  he  had  shown  a  little 
more  interest  in,  a  little  more  appreciation  of, 


296        SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS 

Ann  Kavanagh !  He  could  be  kind  and  thought- 
ful in  a  patronising  sort  of  way.  Even  that 
would  not  have  mattered  if  there  had  been  any 
justification  for  his  airs  of  superiority. 

Ann  Kavanagh,  who  ought  to  have  taken  a 
back  seat  on  this  occasion,  had  persisted  in  com- 
ing to  the  front.    It  was  so  like  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "what  are  you  going  to 
say  to  her  ? ' '    She  did  get  it  in,  after  all. 

"I  was  going,' '  said  Matthew,  "to  talk  to 
her  about  Art  and  Literature,  touching,  maybe, 
upon  a  few  other  objects.  Also,  I  might  have 
suggested  our  seeing  each  other  again  once  or 
twice,  just  to  get  better  acquainted.  And  then 
I  was  going  away. ' ' 

"Why  going  away?"  asked  Ann. 

' '  To  see  if  I  could  forget  you. ' ' 

She  turned  to  him.  The  fading  light  was  full 
upon  her  face. 

"I  don't  believe  you  could — again,"  she  said. 

"No,"  he  agreed.    "I'm  afraid  I  couldn't." 

"You're  sure  there's  nobody  else,"  said  Ann, 
i  i  that  you  're  in  love  with.    Only  us  two  I ' ' 

"Only  you  two,"  he  said. 

She   was    standing   with   her   hand   on   old 


SYLVIA  OF  THE  LETTERS        297 

Abner's  empty  chair.  "You've  got  to  choose,' ' 
she  said.  She  was  trembling.  Her  voice 
sounded  just  a  little  hard. 

He  came  and  stood  beside  her.  "I  want 
Ann,"  he  said. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  said  Ann,"  she  laughed 


THE  FAWN  GLOVES 


The  Fawn  Gloves 

ALWAYS  he  remembered  her  as  he  saw 
her  first:  the  little  spiritual  face,  the  lit- 
tle brown  shoes  pointed  downward,  their  toes 
just  touching  the  ground;  the  little  fawn  gloves 
folded  upon  her  lap.  He  was  not  conscious  of 
having  noticed  her  with  any  particular  atten- 
tion: a  plainly  dressed,  childish-looking  figure 
alone  on  a  seat  between  him  and  the  setting  sun. 
Even  had  he  felt  curious  his  shyness  would 
have  prevented  his  deliberately  running  the 
risk  of  meeting  her  eyes.  Yet  immediately  he 
had  passed  her  he  saw  her  again,  quite  clearly: 
the  pale  oval  face,  the  brown  shoes,  and,  be- 
tween them,  the  little  fawn  gloves  folded  one 
over  the  other.  All  down  the  Broad  Walk  and 
across  Primrose  Hill,  he  saw  her  silhouetted 
against  the  sinking  sun.    At  least  that  much  of 

301 


302  THE  FAWN  GLOVES 

her :  the  wistful  face  and  the  trim  brown  shoes 
and  the  little  folded  hands ;  until  the  sun  went 
down  behind  the  high  chimneys  of  the  brewery 
beyond  Swiss  Cottage,  and  then  she  faded. 

She  was  there  again  the  next  evening,  pre- 
cisely in  the  same  place.  Usually  he  walked 
home  by  the  Hampstead  Road.  Only  occasion- 
ally, when  the  beauty  of  the  evening  tempted 
him,  would  he  take  the  longer  way  by  Regent 
Street  and  through  the  park.  But  so  often  it 
made  him  feel  sad,  the  quiet  park,  forcing  upon 
him  the  sense  of  his  own  loneliness. 

He  would  walk  down  merely  as  far  as  the 
Great  Vase,  so  he  arranged  with  himself.  If 
she  were  not  there — it  was  not  likely  that  she 
would  be — he  would  turn  back  into  Albany 
Street.  The  newsvendors '  shops  with  their  dis- 
play of  the  cheaper  illustrated  papers,  the 
second-hand  furniture  dealers  with  their  faded 
engravings  and  old  prints,  would  give  him 
something  to  look  at,  to  take  away  his  thoughts 
from  himself.  But  seeing  her  in  the  distance, 
almost  the  moment  he  had  entered  the  gate,  it 
came  to  him  how  disappointed  he  would  have 
been  had  the  seat  in  front  of  the  red  tulip  bed 


THE  FAWN  GLOVES  303 

been  vacant.  A  little  away  from  her  lie 
paused,  turning  to  look  at  the  flowers.  He 
thought  that,  waiting  his  opportunity,  he  might 
be  able  to  steal  a  glance  at  her  undetected. 
Once  for  a  moment  he  did  so,  but  venturing  a 
second  time  their  eyes  met,  or  he  fancied  they 
did,  and  blushing  furiously  he  hurried  past. 
But  again  she  came  with  him,  or,  rather,  pre- 
ceded him.  On  each  empty  seat  between  him 
and  the  sinking  sun  he  saw  her  quite  plainly: 
the  pale  oval  face  and  the  brown  shoes,  and, 
between  them,  the  fawn  gloves  folded  one  upon 
the  other. 

Only  this  evening,  about  the  small,  sensitive 
mouth  there  seemed  to  be  hovering  just  the 
faintest  suggestion  of  a  timid  smile.  And  this 
time  she  lingered  with  him  past  Queen's  Cres- 
cent and  the  Maiden  Road,  till  he  turned  into 
Carlton  Street.  It  was  dark  in  the  passage,  and 
he  had  to  grope  his  way  up  the  stairs,  but  with 
his  hand  on  the  door  of  the  bed-sitting  room  on 
the  third  floor  he  felt  less  afraid  of  the  solitude 
that  would  rise  to  meet  him. 

All  day  long  in  the  dingy  back  office  in  Abing- 
don Street,  Westminster,  where  from  ten  to 


304  THE  FAWN  GLOVES 

six  each  day  he  sat  copying  briefs  and  petitions, 
he  thought  over  what  he  would  say  to  her ;  tact- 
ful beginnings  by  means  of  which  he  would  slide 
into  conversation  with  her.  Up  Portland  Place 
he  would  rehearse  them  to  himself.  But  at 
Cambridge  Gate,  when  the  little  fawn  gloves 
came  in  view,  the  words  would  run  away,  to 
join  him  again  maybe  at  the  gate  into  the  Ches- 
ter Road,  leaving  him  meanwhile  to  pass  her 
with  stiff,  hurried  steps  and  eyes  fixed  straight 
in  front  of  him.  And  so  it  might  have  contin- 
ued, but  that  one  evening  she  was  no  longer  at 
her  usual  seat.  A  crowd  of  noisy  children 
swarmed  over  it,  and  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  the  trees  and  flowers  had  all  turned  drab. 
A  terror  gnawed  at  his  heart,  and  he  hurried 
on,  more  for  the  need  of  movement  than  with 
any  definite  object.  And  just  beyond  a  bed  of 
geraniums  that  had  hidden  his  view  she  was 
seated  on  a  chair,  and  stopping  with  a  jerk 
absolutely  in  front  of  her,  he  said,  quite  angrily : 

1  i  Oh !  there  you  are ! ' ' 

Which  was  not  a  bit  the  speech  with  which  he 
had  intended  to  introduce  himself,  but  served 
his  purpose  just  as  well — perhaps  better. 


THE  FAWN  GLOVES  305 

She  did  not  resent  his  words  or  the  tone. 

i '  It  was  the  children, ' '  she  explained.  ' '  They 
wanted  to  play ;  so  I  thought  I  would  come  on  a 
little  farther." 

Upon  which,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  took 
the  chair  beside  her,  and  it  did  not  occur  to 
either  of  them  that  they  had  not  known  one 
another  since  the  beginning,  when  between  St. 
John's  Wood  and  Albany  Street  God  planted 
a  garden. 

Each  evening  they  would  linger  there,  listen- 
ing to  the  pleading  passion  of  the  black-bird's 
note,  the  thrush's  call  to  joy  and  hope.  He 
loved  her  gentle  ways.  From  the  bold  chal- 
lenges, the  sly  glances  of  invitation  flashed 
upon  him  in  the  street  or  from  some  neighbour- 
ing table  in  the  cheap  luncheon  room  he  had 
always  shrank  confused  and  awkward.  Her 
shyness  gave  him  confidence.  It  was  she  who 
was  half  afraid,  whose  eyes  would  fall  beneath 
his  gaze,  who  would  tremble  at  his  touch,  giving 
him  the  delights  of  manly  dominion,  of  tender 
authority.  It  was  he  who  insisted  on  the  aristo- 
cratic seclusion  afforded  by  the  private  chair; 
who,  with  the  careless  indifference  of  a  man 


306  THE  FAWN  GLOVES 

to  whom  pennies  were  unimportant,  would  pay 
for  them  both.  Once  on  his  way  through  Pic- 
cadilly Circus  he  had  paused  by  the  fountain  to 
glance  at  a  great  basket  of  lilies-of-the-valley, 
struck  suddenly  by  the  thought  how  strangely 
their  little  pale  petals  seemed  suggestive  of  her. 

' '  'Ere  y '  are,  honey.  Her  favourite  flower ! [ ' 
cried  the  girl,  with  a  grin,  holding  a  bunch 
towards  him. 

"How  much?"  he  had  asked,  vainly  trying 
to  keep  the  blood  from  rushing  to  his  face. 

The  girl  paused  a  moment,  a  coarse  kindly 
creature. 

"Sixpence,"  she  demanded;  and  he  bought 
them.  She  had  meant  to  ask  him  a  shilling,  and 
knew  he  would  have  paid  it.  "Same  as  silly 
fool!"  she  called  herself  as  she  pocketed  the 
money. 

He  gave  them  to  her  with  a  fine  lordly  air, 
and  watched  her  while  she  pinned  them  to  her 
blouse,  and  a  squirrel  halting  in  the  middle  of 
the  walk  watched  her  also  with  his  head  on  one 
side,  wondering  what  was  the  good  of  them  that 
she  should  store  them  with  so  much  care.  She 
did  not  thank  him  in  words,  but  there  were 


THE  FAWN  GLOVES  307 

tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  turned  her  face  to 
his,  and  one  of  the  little  fawn  gloves  stole  out 
and  sought  his  hand.  He  took  it  in  both  his, 
and  would  have  held  it,  but  she  withdrew  it 
almost  hurriedly. 

They  appealed  to  him,  her  gloves,  in  spite  of 
their  being  old  and  much  mended;  and  he  was 
glad  they  were  of  kid.  Had  they  been  of  cotton, 
such  as  girls  of  her  class  usually  wore,  the 
thought  of  pressing  his  lips  to  them  would  have 
put  his  teeth  on  edge.  He  loved  the  little  brown 
shoes,  that  must  have  been  expensive  when  new, 
for  they  still  kept  their  shape.  And  the  fringe 
of  dainty  petticoat,  always  so  spotless  and  with 
never  a  tear,  and  the  neat,  plain  stockings  that 
showed  below  the  closely  fitting  frock.  So  often 
he  had  noticed  girls,  showily,  extravagantly 
dressed,  but  with  red  bare  hands  and  sloppy 
shoes.  Handsome  girls,  some  of  them,  attrac- 
tive enough  if  you  were  not  of  a  finicking  nature 
to  whom  the  little  accessories  are  almost  of 
more  importance  than  the  whole. 

He  loved  her  voice,  so  different  from  the 
strident  tones  that  every  now  and  then,  as  some 
couple,    laughing    and    talking,    passed    them, 


308  THE  FAWN  GLOVES 

would  fall  upon  him  almost  like  a  blow;  her 
quick,  graceful  movements  that  always  brought 
back  to  his  memory  the  vision  of  hill  and 
stream.  In  her  little  brown  shoes  and  gloves 
and  the  frock  which  was  also  of  a  shade  of 
brown  though  darker,  she  was  strangely  sug- 
gestive to  him  of  a  fawn.  The  timid,  gentle 
look,  the  swift,  soft  movements  that  have  taken 
place  before  they  are  seen;  the  haunting  sug- 
gestion of  fear  never  quite  conquered,  as  if  the 
little  nervous  limbs  were  always  ready  for  sud- 
den flight.  He  called  her  that  one  day.  Neither 
of  them  had  ever  thought  to  ask  one  another's 
names ;  it  did  not  seem  to  matter. 

"My  little  brown  fawn,"  he  had  whispered, 
"I  am  always  expecting  you  suddenly  to  dig 
your  little  heels  into  the  ground  and  spring 
away";  and  she  had  laughed  and  drawn  a  little 
closer  to  him.  And  even  that  was  just  the 
movement  of  a  fawn.  He  had  known  them, 
creeping  near  to  them  upon  the  hill-sides  when 
he  was  a  child. 

There  was  much  in  common  between  them, 
so  they  found.  Though  he  could  claim  a  few 
distant  relatives  scattered  about  the  North,  they 


THE  FAWN  GLOVES  309 

were  both,  for  all  practical  purposes,  alone  in 
the  world.  To  her,  also,  home  meant  a  bed- 
sitting  room — "over  there,' '  as  she  indicated 
with  a  wave  of  the  little  fawn  glove  embracing 
the  northwest  district  generally;  and  he  did 
not  press  her  for  any  more  precise  address. 

It  was  easy  enough  for  him  to  picture  it :  the 
mean,  close- smelling  street  somewhere  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Lisson  Grove,  or  farther  on 
towards  the  Harrow  Road.  Always  he  pre- 
ferred to  say  good-bye  to  her  at  some  point 
in  the  Outer  Circle,  with  its  peaceful  vista 
of  fine  trees  and  stately  houses,  watching 
her  little  fawn-like  figure  fading  away  into  the 
twilight. 

No  friend  or  relative  had  she  ever  known 
except  the  pale,  girlish-looking  mother  who 
had  died  soon  after  they  had  come  to  London. 
The  elderly  landlady  had  let  her  stay  on,  help- 
ing in  the  work  of  the  house;  and  when  even 
this  last  refuge  had  failed  her,  well-meaning 
folk  had  interested  themselves  and  secured  her 
employment.  It  was  light  and  fairly  well  paid, 
but  there  were  objections  to  it,  so  he  gathered, 
more  from  her  halting  silences  than  from  what 


310  THE  FAWN  GLOVES 

she  said.  She  had  tried  for  a  time  to  find  some- 
thing else,  but  it  was  so  difficult  without  help 
or  resources.  There  was  nothing  really  to  com- 
plain about  it,  except And  then  she  paused 

with  a  sudden  clasp  of  the  gloved  hands,  and, 
seeing  the  troubled  look  in  her  eyes,  he  had 
changed  the  conversation. 

It  did  not  matter;  he  would  take  her  away 
from  it.  It  was  very  sweet  to  him,  the  thought 
of  putting  a  protective  arm  about  this  little 
fragile  creature  whose  weakness  gave  him 
strength.  He  was  not  always  going  to  be  a 
clerk  in  an  office.  He  was  going  to  write 
poetry,  books,  plays.  Already  he  had  earned 
a  little.  He  told  her  of  his  hopes,  and  her  great 
faith  in  him  gave  him  new  courage.  One  even- 
ing, finding  a  seat  where  few  people  ever 
passed,  he  read  to  her.  And  she  had  under- 
stood. All  unconsciously  she  laughed  in  the 
right  places,  and  when  his  own  voice  trembled, 
and  he  found  it  difficult  to  continue  for  the  lump 
in  his  own  throat,  glancing  at  her  he  saw  the 
tears  were  in  her  eyes.  It  was  the  first  time 
he  had  tasted  sympathy. 

And  so  spring  grew  to  summer.    And  then 


THE  FAWN  GLOVES  311 

one  evening  a  great  thing  happened.    He  could 
not  make  ont  at  first  what  it  was  about  her: 
some  little  added  fragrance  that  made  itself 
oddly  felt,  while  she  herself  seemed  to  be  con- 
scious of  increased  dignity.    It  was  not  until  he 
took  her  hand  to  say  good-bye  that  he  discov- 
ered it.    There  was  something  different  about 
the  feel  of  her,  and,  looking  down  at  the  little 
hand  that  lay  in  his,  he  found  the  reason.    She 
had  on  a  pair  of  new  gloves.    They  were  still 
of  the  same  fawn  colour,  but  so  smooth  and  soft 
and  cool.    They  fitted  closely  without  a  wrinkle, 
displaying  the  slightness  and  the  gracefulness 
of  the  hands  beneath.    The  twilight  had  almost 
faded,  and,  save  for  the  broad  back  of  a  disap- 
pearing policeman,  they  had  the  Outer  Circle 
to  themselves ;  and,  the  sudden  impulse  coming 
to  him,  he  dropped  on  one  knee,  as  they  do  in 
plays  and  storybooks  and  sometimes  elsewhere, 
and  pressed  the  little  fawn  gloves  to  his  lips 
in    a    long,    passionate    kiss.      The    sound    of 
approaching  footsteps  made  him  rise  hurriedly. 
She  did  not  move,  but  her  whole  body  was  trem- 
bling,  and  in  her  eyes  was  a  look  that  was 
almost   of   fear.     The   approaching   footsteps 


312  THE  FAWN  GLOVES 

came  nearer  and  nearer,  but  a  bend  of  the  road 
still  screened  them.  Swiftly  and  in  silence  she 
put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him.  It 
was  a  strange,  cold  kiss,  but  almost  fierce,  and 
then  without  a  word  she  turned  and  walked 
away ;  and  he  watched  her  to  the  corner  of  Han- 
over Gate,  but  she  did  not  look  back. 

It  was  almost  as  if  it  had  raised  a  barrier 
between  them,  that  kiss.  The  next  evening  she 
came  to  meet  him  with  a  smile  as  usual,  but  in 
her  eyes  was  still  that  odd  suggestion  of  lurk- 
ing fear;  and  when,  seated  beside  her,  he  put 
his  hand  on  hers  it  seemed  to  him  she  shrank 
away  from  him.  It  was  an  unconscious  move- 
ment. It  brought  back  to  him  that  haunting 
memory  of  hill  and  stream  when  some  soft-eyed 
fawn,  strayed  from  her  fellows,  would  let  him 
approach  quite  close  to  her,  and  then,  when  he 
put  out  his  hand  to  caress  her,  would  start  away 
with  a  swift,  quivering  movement. 

' '  Do  you  always  wear  gloves  V '  he  asked  her 
one  evening  a  little  later. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  speaking  low;  "when 
I'm  out  of  doors." 

"But   this   is   not   out   of   doors,"   he   had 


THE  FAWN  GLOVES  313 

pleaded.     "We   have   come   into   the    garden. 
Won't  yon  take  them  off?" 

She  had  looked  at  him  from  nnder  bent 
brows,  as  if  trying  to  read  him.  She  did  not 
answer  him  then.  Bnt  on  the  way  ont,  on  the 
last  seat  close  to  the  gate,  she  had  sat  down, 
motioning  him  to  sit  beside  her.  Qnietly  she 
unbuttoned  the  fawn  gloves ;  drew  each  one  off 
and  laid  them  aside.  And  then,  for  the  first 
time,  he  saw  her  hands. 

Had  he  looked  at  her,  seen  the  faint  hope  die 
out,  the  mute  agony  in  the  quiet  eyes  watching 
him,  he  would  have  tried  to  hide  the  disgust, 
the  physical  repulsion  that  showed  itself  so 
plainly  in  his  face,  in  the  involuntary  move- 
ment with  which  he  drew  away  from  her.  They 
were  small  and  shapely  with  rounded  curves, 
but  raw  and  seared  as  with  hot  irons,  with  a 
growth  of  red,  angry-coloured  warts,  and  the 
nails  all  worn  away. 

' i  I  ought  to  have  shown  them  to  you  before, ' ' 
she  said  simply  as  she  drew  the  gloves  on  again. 
"It  was  silly  of  me.    I  ought  to  have  known/ ' 

He  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  his  phrases  came 
meaningless  and  halting. 


314  THE  FAWN  GLOVES 

It  was  the  work,  she  explained  as  they  walked 
on.  It  made  your  hands  like  that  after  a  time. 
If  only  she  could  have  got  out  of  it  earlier !  But 
now!    It  was  no  good  worrying  about  it  now. 

They  parted  near  to  the  Hanover  Gate,  but 
to-night  he  did  not  stand  watching  her  as  he  had 
always  done  till  she  waved  a  last  good-bye  to 
him  just  before  disappearing;  so  whether  she 
turned  or  not  he  never  knew. 

He  did  not  go  to  meet  her  the  next  evening. 
A  dozen  times  his  footsteps  led  him  uncon- 
sciously almost  to  the  gate.  Then  he  would 
hurry  away  again,  pace  the  mean  streets,  jos- 
tling stupidly  against  the  passersby.  The  pale, 
sweet  face,  the  little  nymph-like  figure,  the  lit- 
tle brown  shoes  kept  calling  to  him.  If  only 
there  would  pass  away  the  horror  of  those 
hands !  All  the  artist  in  him  shuddered  at  the 
memory  of  them.  Always  he  had  imagined 
them  under  the  neat,  smooth  gloves  as  fitting  in 
with  all  the  rest  of  her,  dreaming  of  the  time 
when  he  would  hold  them  in  his  own,  caressing 
them,  kissing  them.  Would  it  be  possible  to 
forget  them,  to  reconcile  oneself  to  them?  He 
must  think — must  get  away  from  these  crowded 


THE  FAWN  GLOVES  315 

streets  where  faces  seemed  to  grin  at  him.  He 
remembered  that  Parliament  had  just  risen, 
that  work  was  slack  in  the  office.  He  would  ask 
that  he  might  take  his  holiday  now — the  next 
day.    And  they  had  agreed. 

He  packed  a  few  things  into  a  knapsack. 
From  the  voices  of  the  hills  and  streams  he 
would  find  counsel. 

He  took  no  count  of  his  wanderings.  One 
evening  at  a  lonely  inn  he  met  a  young  doctor. 
The  innkeeper's  wife  was  expecting  to  be  taken 
with  child  that  night,  and  the  doctor  was  wait- 
ing downstairs  till  summoned.  While  they  were 
talking,  the  idea  came  to  him.  Why  had  he  not 
thought  of  it?  Overcoming  his  shyness,  he  put 
his  questions.  What  work  would  it  be  that 
would  cause  such  injuries?  He  described  them, 
seeing  them  before  him  in  the  shadows  of  the 
dimly  lighted  room,  those  poor,  pitiful  little 
hands. 

Oh !  a  dozen  things  might  account  for  it — the 
doctor's  voice  sounded  callous — the  handling  of 
flax,  even  of  linen  under  certain  conditions. 
Chemicals  entered  so  much  nowadays  into  all 
sorts  of  processes  and  preparations.    All  this 


316  THE  FAWN  GLOVES 

new  photography,  cheap  colour  printing,  dyeing 
and  cleaning,  metal  work.  Might  all  be  avoided 
by  providing  rubber  gloves.  It  ought  to  be 
made  compulsory.  The  doctor  seemed  inclined 
to  hold  forth.    He  interrupted  him. 

But  could  it  be  cured?    Was  there  any  hope? 

Cured?  Hope!  Of  course  it  could  be  cured. 
It  was  only  local — the  effect  being  confined  to 
the  hands  proved  that.  A  poisoned  condition 
of  the  skin  aggravated  by  general  poverty  of 
blood.  Take  her  away  from  it;  let  her  have 
plenty  of  fresh  air  and  careful  diet,  using  some 
such  simple  ointment  or  another  as  any  local 
man,  seeing  them,  would  prescribe ;  and  in  three 
or  four  months  they  would  recover. 

He  could  hardly  stay  to  thank  the  young  doc- 
tor. He  wanted  to  get  away  by  himself,  to 
shout,  to  wave  his  arms,  to  leap.  Had  it  been 
possible  he  would  have  returned  that  very 
night.  He  cursed  himself  for  the  fancifulness 
that  had  prevented  his  inquiring  her  address. 
He  could  have  sent  a  telegram.  Rising  at  dawn, 
for  he  had  not  attempted  to  sleep,  he  walked 
the  ten  miles  to  the  nearest  railway  station,  and 
waited  for  the  train.     All  day  long  it  seemed 


THE  FAWN  GLOVES  317 

to  creep  with  him  through  the  endless  country. 
But  London  came  at  last. 

It  was  still  the  afternoon,  but  he  did  not  care 
to  go  to  his  room.  Leaving  his  knapsack  at  the 
station,  he  made  his  way  to  Westminster.  He 
wanted  all  things  to  be  unchanged,  so  that 
between  this  evening  and  their  parting  it  might 
seem  as  if  there  had  merely  passed  an  ugly 
dream ;  and  timing  himself,  he  reached  the  park 
just  at  their  usual  hour. 

He  waited  till  the  gates  were  closed,  but  she 
did  not  come.  All  day  long  at  the  back  of  his 
mind  had  been  that  fear,  but  he  had  driven  it 
away.  She  was  ill,  just  a  headache,  or  merely 
tired. 

And  the  next  evening  he  told  himself  the 
same.  He  dared  not  whisper  to  himself  any- 
thing else.  And  each  succeeding  evening  again. 
He  never  remembered  how  many.  For  a  time 
he  would  sit  watching  the  path  by  which  she  had 
always  come ;  and  when  the  hour  was  long  past 
he  would  rise  and  walk  towards  the  gate,  look 
east  and  west,  and  then  return.  One  evening  he 
stopped  one  of  the  park-keepers  and  questioned 
him.    Yes,  the  man  remembered  her  quite  well : 


318  THE  FAWN  GLOVES 

the  young  lady  with  the  fawn  gloves.  She  had 
come  once  or  twice — maybe  oftener,  the  park- 
keeper  could  not  be  sure — and  had  waited.  No, 
there  had  been  nothing  to  show  that  she  was 
in  any  way  upset.  She  had  just  sat  there  for  a 
time,  now  and  then  walking  a  little  way  and 
then  coming  back  again,  until  the  closing  hour, 
and  then  she  had  gone.  He  left  his  address  with 
the  park-keeper.  The  man  promised  to  let  him 
know  if  he  ever  saw  her  there  again. 

Sometimes,  instead  of  the  park,  he  would 
haunt  the  mean  streets  about  Lisson  Grove  and 
far  beyond  the  other  side  of  the  Edgware  Road, 
pacing  them  till  night  fell.  But  he  never  found 
her. 

He  wondered,  beating  against  the  bars  of  his 
poverty,  if  money  would  have  helped  him.  But 
the  grim,  endless  city,  hiding  its  million  secrets, 
seemed  to  mock  the  thought.  A  few  pounds  he 
had  scraped  together  he  spent  in  advertise- 
ments; but  he  expected  no  response,  and  none 
came.    It  was  not  likely  she  would  see  them. 

And  so  after  a  time  the  park,  and  even  the 
streets  round  about  it,  became  hateful  to  him; 
and  he  moved  away  to  another  part  of  London, 


THE  FAWN  GLOVES  319 

hoping  to  forget.  But  he  never  quite  succeeded. 
Always  it  would  come  back  to  him  when  he  was 
not  thinking:  the  broad,  quiet  walk  with  its 
prim  trees  and  gay  beds  of  flowers.  And  always 
he  would  see  her  seated  there,  framed  by  the 
fading  light.  At  least,  that  much  of  her :  the  lit- 
tle spiritual  face,  and  the  brown  shoes  pointing 
downward,  and  between  them  the  little  fawn 
gloves  folded  upon  her  lap. 


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